SPOOKED
by ellymelly
Summary: Harry and Ruth are dragged into a potential apocalypse when a scientist is kidnapped from a dinner party and his research is unleashed on the world. Set between seasons 9 and 10. Ship-oriented action.
1. RASMUSSEN

**THAMES HOUSE, LONDON**

 **MI5 CENTRAL HQ**

"RUTH!"

It was a familiar bellow sweeping through the MI5 offices, shaking the monitors all the way to Ruth Evershed's desk where it was answered with a tired sigh.

"You'll have to go..." her colleague leaned around his screen.

Ruth fussed with the corner of a file on a (quite frankly alarming) pile of meaningless requests from the Home Office. "I know." She looked up toward his office and caught her boss staring directly through the glass at her. "Shit." His eyes followed her progress across the room until she knocked uselessly on his door and slid in.

"I'm sitting next to the Minister for Trade." He announced irritably.

Ruth shifted, not sure what to make of that opening. She presumed he was referring to the state dinner planned for this evening. "...I know."

"No I _can't_ sit next to the Minister for Trade. It's a four hour dinner, Ruth. My ears will haemorrhage if I'm forced to listen to one more sermon about 'the greater good'. Fix it. Now."

"It's your job to sit next to the Minister." Ruth pointed out, clutching a pile of paperwork in front of her chest like armour. He wouldn't be able to scare her into submission. Someone with higher clearance and a louder bark than him had gotten to her first. "You're head of counter-terrorism," she reminded him firmly. "If you don't sit next to the Minister there'll be nothing to separate him and the Defence Secretary."

"I don't follow."

"Think about it a little longer."

So he did. The two of them lingered in his office, unmoving – silent. His eyes finally rolled in reluctant acceptance as he caught up. "Oh. _Oh_."

"Don't look too forlorn," Ruth insisted. "There's a car coming to pick you up after you've survived the affair and we'll be with you all night offering helpful commentary."

"Why are we running an opp at the dinner?" Unless they were putting _him_ under surveillance to make sure he didn't take out his general disappointment in humanity on a few deserving politicians.

"Mavrick's been invited. Thought it might be a good opportunity to fill in a few of the blanks we have surrounding his wonderful top secret proposal he keeps baiting us with. Most of what he says is either sadistic rubbish or egotistical fulfilment but every now and then one of his minions stumbles onto something genuinely worthy of our attention. Intel is good on this."

"Why aren't I sitting next to him?"

"George got dibs."

"MI6?" Harry's scowl was almost a moan of despair. "We're slipping, Ruth. Are you coming?"

She hovered at the door, about to leave. "Why would I come?"

"Plus one?"

"Harry, I'm flattered, really but it's not a 'plus one' sort of a dinner." Ruth stumbled over her words despite it being one of the more innocuous things he'd stammered out before thinking. "Don't worry," she softened her reply, "I'll be listening in along with the others. Try to keep your commentary on the house wine to a minimum."

"I don't want to go. Ruth!"

Ruth made him go. He was both alarmed and proud to discover that his Senior Intelligence Analyst could organise his life into a purpose, herding him toward the inevitable no matter how many detours he attempted to foil her with. One way or another, he'd ended up standing outside his front door, dressed in a dinner suit he'd had to dust off. The bow tie was the final nail in his coffin of certainty. This dinner was happening so he might as well relax into the finality of his fate.

 _'Are you in position?'_

Her voice rang out of his earpiece. He wouldn't be surprised if half the Spooks went mad after retiring, wandering around the streets muttering things to the voices in their heads. "Don't pretend there isn't a tracker on me, Ruth."

 _'Car's approaching now. You'll be picking another diner up en-route.'_

"Honestly?"

 _'Harry. It's the guest of honour. We're chauffeuring him in after there were some last minute security concerns.'_

"It's not like he's developing the cure for cancer. Is he?" Harry's eyes had glossed over during that particular briefing. He'd been busy worrying about more important issues, like the upcoming Heads of State conference next week. All sorts of high security risk individuals were flooding the country and the terrorists were swarming in a thick haze of excitement. He didn't have time for dinner.

 _'Name's Dr Michael Rasmussen – Danish researcher. He's made serious advancements in telomere regeneration.'_ Harry was silent which Ruth knew translated to 'confused'. _"The medical equivalent of the 'Fountain of Youth'. Every nut job with an internet connection will be trying to mob his car. There's been some alarming interest from foreign governments particularly those with dictators who believe it's their entitlement to live forever. The security risk is real. That's why you're taking him there and dropping him back into the waiting arms of his embassy. The sooner he's out of this country the better.'_

"This the car?"

 _'Yes. You can practise your social skills on him.'_

Those were non-existent. His car lingered outside the embassy, collecting the scientist. He was an unusually tall, suave creature dressed in a light brown chequered suit. Harry didn't know what he'd been expecting – maybe a lab coat and glasses... Whatever it might have been it wasn't the awkward politeness of the creature sitting next to him.

 _'Come on, Mr Talkative – dig for a bit of information while you're there.'_

That ended up being more uncomfortable than the silence. Ruth had one of the junior agents feed him leading questions but Rasmussen kept his cards close. He sounded practised at avoiding interrogation. Probably came with the line of work. Some medical research centres had high levels of secrecy than MI5.

Harry understood how the wall dividing East and West Germany must have felt. He had a minister on one flank and the secretary hurling thinly veiled insults at his policies on the other. He couldn't even find the will to feign an interest in their war so he sat there, twirling red wine around his glass while his colleagues chattered in his ear. One of his agents was serving condiments. He watched as they slid a tracking device under the collar of a fellow diner. It was funny... When you knew what to look for it was all so terribly obvious. Spying was a game only most didn't know they were supposed to be playing.

"Tell her to be less obvious next time," he muttered into his glass. "Half the room spotted that." Glasses chimed around him. The lights dimmed. "Oh here we go, speech time."

The moment Rasmussen wandered onto stage Harry had the distinct feeling that this was all an elaborate sales pitch – a damn good one. Even Harry had no trouble following the narrative of a wonder nugget of technology that could halt age in its weary progress and march it backwards. He could not have had a more adoring audience. Harry watched the other politicians and high ranking persons as they shifted forward on their seats watching footage of lab rats living to extraordinary ages.

 _'Harry...'_

"Not now." He murmured under his breath.

 _'Rasmussen.'_ Ruth ignored his protest. He could hear her shuffling papers in the background. She had something. _'We missed something on our first checks. It's his date of birth. Third of April, nineteen thirty-seven. Our doctor is seventy-four.'_

Impossible. He couldn't be more than mid-thirties at best. Harry set his glass of wine down and shifted up on his seat.

 _'This could be legit, Harry. We're running his files now.'_

If they were doing it, the Yanks were no doubt on it. Harry cast his eye around the table of diplomats and found them all paying particular attention. No one was drinking. The room was quiet. Several brushed their hands against their ears, listening to information like him. He was willing to admit that Ruth might have a point.

"When this is done, keep an eye on him."

A moment later, their waitress plant nodded back, receiving his instruction.

"Load of nonsense!" The disagreeable Minister for Trade lurched towards the sweets laid on the table once the lights came back on. "All of these things are a scam. Expensive, well presented scams. They're no better than those, 'save the world' speeches we had to sit through at the EU. Do you remember?"

To Harry's shock, the Defence Secretary nodded. Jesus. Something they agreed on.

 _'Harry, alpha one's comm has gone dark.'_

He politely excused himself from the table and wandered over to the window, pretending to enjoy the view of parliament house lit up against the darkness. "What?"

 _'She went into a corridor following the doctor. Might be interference from the concrete walls.'_

"I'll go..." Harry replied.

Slipping out from the clutches of the dignitaries was easy after decades spying on them. Harry took the same hallway as his alpha team member and followed Ruth's whispered directions until she made him stop.

 _'It's just through these doors, Harry. Be careful.'_

He found his eyebrows lofting all on their own. "Your concern is noted." It was only then that he remembered he wasn't armed. There was no point bringing anything to an event like this because it was thieved at the door. Harry took a breath and then pushed on the double doors. They folded inward in unison. Harry stepped through, confronted by a standard empty corridor complete with flickering neon light on the edge of death. "Can you still hear me?"

 _'Loud and clear, Harry. Any sign of our agent?'_

"Nothing. I'm going to have a look around." He pressed forward, nudging at a few objects in the corridor – worrying the handles of doors as he passed but they were all locked. "Whatever was our special guest doing down here?"

 _'We've got the blue-prints up. You're heading toward the private delivery entrance for the kitchens.'_

"I don't like it."

 _'Neither do I.'_

"Wait."

 _'Harry? Harry what do you see?'_

* * *

Ruth ripped her ear piece out and swore so sharply the team backed away from her. "Harry's comm's gone dark as well. What the hell is going on down there?"

"Bad connection?" One of the kids offered.

She didn't seem convinced. "I'm going over there. Call one of the cars around. Simon – take my place. You hear anything from either of them, pass it through at once."

Storming out of the office, Ruth swung a left and checked a side arm out of the lockers, slipping it into her purse. If this was Harry's way of punishing her for making him go to this dinner she was going to shoot him herself – nothing fatal, just a clean clip on the leg should do it.

Her car pulled around the back, avoiding the queues of parading limousines waiting along the main street. It was far less salubrious – dumpsters on one side, emergency fire ladders folded up like the dried husks of spiders on the other. The few street lights that managed to remain on were scattered far apart leaving stretches of darkness in between. She searched for movement. Nothing.

"Wait here," she directed the car.

Sticking to the wall, Ruth slipped through the shadows with more ease than an analyst had any right. The entrance to the second carpark was woefully unguarded. Its entrance gaped like the mouth of a cave. She entered, reaching into her pocket for a torch. In her other hand, Ruth held her phone, staring at Harry's tracking beacon. According to this he was still in the building. She headed toward it.

* * *

Harry was about to reply to his comms when a gloved hand swept over his mouth from behind. Before he could react, he was dragged into a side room and slammed against the wall. The leather pressed against his lips.

"Quiet..." His attacker hissed.

He recognised his alpha at once and relaxed, nodding. Harry was about to ask Sasha what the hell she was playing at when he heard the commotion coming from the hallway. A team of armed men paraded Rasmussen past them. He wasn't struggling but neither would he if he had a half a dozen sullen escorts.

 _'Ruth. Something's happening. Ruth -'_

"Comms are down," Sasha whispered. "These guys are wearing jammers. Soon as you get anywhere near them all our gear stops working. I ran into them earlier. Whomever they are, they're not here for the drinks."

"No." Harry replied, ducking away from the small window on the door to avoid being seen. "They're here for Rasmussen. We've got to get out of this room and raise the alarm. If they roll out like this we'll never see him again."

* * *

Ruth rolled, slipping behind one of the carpark's pillars. There was a forest of them, all with nasty gashes from ill-executed parking choices. She hid in the shadow. It was as though the sun had suddenly risen behind them as a line of cars started their engines. Their headlights faced her. She had nowhere to go without being instantly spotted.

 _'You guys still hear me back there? Hello? Hell-'_

Nothing. Dead comms. It couldn't be the concrete. Something else was interfering with their communications. It didn't sit well with her. There was a large, curved parking mirror to her left. Reflected in it Ruth could make out a few black Landcruisers. One of their number plates was visible. She memorised it that started slipping from pillar to pillar, staying in the shadows, trying to find a way out of the parking area so that she could call it in. At the edge she heard a crackle in her ear. Back online.

 _'I need you to run a trace on the following number plate. Have my car follow – tell him, tell him to hang back. Give whomever these guys are some space.'_

There was nothing Ruth could do as tires squealed against the cement floor and the cars pulled out. Three, in total, as they paraded past her. She sank down low, sitting in the dark until they were out of sight. Harry's tracking dot was still inside so she followed that, breaking through a kitchen door before finding herself in a corridor. Above, a neon light stammered, shifting awkwardly between light and dark.

A hand grabbed her arm.

Ruth startled, whirling around to find Harry. She shoved him in the chest.

"Dammit Harry!"

"Or _hello._ " He offered. Sasha appeared beside him with a small wave, no doubt meaning to temper Ruth's ire. It failed.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Our scientist has been lifted." He replied. "And they weren't playing around."

"I've got a car following. We need to get back to the grid and out of this nightmare. We've been set up. This whole thing was probably a lure."

"I agree." Harry rubbed his chest then straightened his jacket. "Well come on, my car is still up top. Sasha, stay here and nose around. See if any one else has left the party." She nodded and left at once leaving Harry and Ruth at odds in the hallway. "Should have come to the party, Ruth."

Ruth, who was well aware of everyone listening in, narrowed her eyes at him. "If I find out this was your doing, I'll book you into every meet and greet scheduled for the next two months."

He raised his hands. "Truce."

Her lip curled ever so slightly. She lived to get a rise out of him.


	2. ZHANG WEI

**3 HOURS LATER**

"They lost him. _Christ._ "

"Easy on your phone, Ruth. Since parliament cut our budget that's the only one you're getting." It was late. Streets lights swam past their windows as the car slipped through London's streets. "Let's start with what we know."

"Not much," she admitted. "Only that – well Rasmussen might not be your average kook with a microscope. His research has legs in the theoretical sense."

"Don't give me, 'theoretical' Ruth. You know how it tips me toward drink."

Ruth placed her elbow on the window of the car, resting wearily against it. She was tired and it was so late it was about to be early. Their already long night had been extended by a disastrous trip across London. The city was at a standstill with a distant swell of blue and red lights embedded in the muffled hum or sirens. It wasn't only that. Ruth could feel Harry's eyes on her whenever they were alone. He'd been right. Between them there would always be, 'something else'.

"When we tried to dig we came across classified files. Lots of them with great swathes of his research blacked out beyond our clearance. Road blocks everywhere."

"That's not very friendly of them," Harry muttered. "MI6 love to lord their clearance over us. Have a word to your friend."

"And then there's his date of birth. We've had that verified."

"Could be nothing. The man at the dinner might have been someone posing as Rasmussen. Impossible to tell without bringing him in. Who flagged the dinner to you?"

"The Home Secretary. Asked if you could attend as a favour."

"That didn't strike you as odd?"

"Not really – we owe him. Several times over, actually. I assumed he was avoiding it himself."

"Maybe – maybe not." Harry's eyes lingered on Ruth. She was nearly asleep, staring at the traffic outside the window and beyond that the snaking void of the Thames. He argued with himself for a long time before he reached over, placing his hand on her arm as she had done many times to him. She didn't fight back or even stir. "We're watching the tunnel and the airports. See if anyone treads on the threads."

Slowly, Ruth turned her head. First she looked to the hand on her arm, then lifted her gaze to his face. His lies were shallow, layered over his eyes. Ruth could read them easily. Well aware of the others listening in over their wires, she fixed him with a stern look. "We won't find anything, Harry. Whoever snatched Rasmussen was well prepared. They sidestepped around four different security services. You and I both know we're never going to see him again. Rasmussen's gone. Sucked under the waters."

They returned to the grid – paced around monitor screens, fielded phone calls for several hours but Ruth was right as usual. The scientist was gone and no one had the slightest idea who might have been behind it. It wasn't MI6 because they called digging for information. Even the Americans weighed in, admitting that they'd been trailing him as well.

At four am, Ruth and Harry were the last ones left standing, shuffling vast towers of useless paperwork off their respective desks. When Harry was finished he wandered over toward his analyst, watching her for a while before playfully knocking on the pillar beside her desk. She startled, eyes flicking up and down rapidly but her hands never stopped sorting through the folders. There was an orgy of coffee cups scattered beside her laptop, some of them untouched.

"Harry."

"Go home, Ruth," he instructed. "Don't make me turn that into an order. I'll give you a lift."

"No need," she assured him. "I'm in time to catch the _first_ bus."

"Ruth..."

"Harry?" This time she paused. He was giving her _that look_. The one that threatened to use protocol to override her. Eventually she sighed. "All right... You win. Give me five more minutes."

"Three. I'll be downstairs."

* * *

 **1 WEEK LATER**

"It's not that I'm wishing for a crisis," Harry insisted, with a considered glance at his drinks tray, "only that-" His analyst was levelling a significantly sterner glare than normal at him so he stopped before he lost a limb. Wishing a crisis into the world was as ridiculous as Ruth implied with her lofted eyebrow but this endless droll of peace was unsettling. Harry felt like it was all building to something. "What are those?"

"Personnel files," she replied, moving into his office. "That time of year again, I'm afraid."

"You would think, out of a lingering echo of decency, that the government might give us a chance to bury our dead before ordering us to replace them." Reluctantly he accepted the files. They were heavy in his hand but not as solid as the encroaching wall of guilt he'd been attempting to hold back with liquor.

Ruth chewed her lip at his comment. Three funerals in as many weeks had pushed her beyond a bottle of red a night. Accidents. Until they could prove otherwise. "Harry..." She cautioned.

"I know." He set the files on his desk. "I'll look through them." Harry caught her inspecting his decanter, no doubt making a note of the receding scotch-line. The important conversations between them had always remained subtext.

"Oh – there was one more thing," she hesitated on her way to the door. "You've got a dinner – at eight. Thursday."

"Good lord... are we sure that's such a good idea? The last time the Home Secretary forced me to socialise we lost an A-list asset. I'm surprised he's game for round-"

"No. No... Just dinner." Ruth clarified. "With ah – me. Unless of course you..." Stumbling over her words as though they were cobblestones, Ruth began to wonder if she'd entirely misread his change of behaviour toward her lately. "It's okay. Doesn't matter really-"

"Ruth..."

He was staring at her again and Ruth wasn't sure what to do with those piercing eyes of his. "Harry."

"I'll see you at eight."

The rest of the week came and went without waking anything of note. Harry, under continual pestering, whittled down the staff selection lists, no major wars were started, those already in progress contained their carnage behind established battle lines and they even managed to scoot through a diplomacy nightmare involving Russian delegates without anyone mentioning the Cold War. (Harry considered that a personal victory). Late into the afternoon he was genuinely starting to believe that he and Ruth were going to make it to their dinner.

His phone buzzed, vibrating across the desk.

"Harry Pearce. Yes. Of course. I understand. I will." Harry looked through the glass to Ruth. She was packing up her desk for the evening. He lifted his hand, catching her eye – indicating to hold on. "At once."

He hung up and strutted across the office, waving members of the team toward him, attracting them like a magnet. "Red Flash went out a few moments ago – top level clearance only."

Simon was the last to join, attached to his tablet as though he'd grown it straight out of his arm. He was part of the generation that were unable to fathom a world without smart phones and internet access. Heavens forbid the world ever descended into a real war. The greatest causalities would be from technology withdrawal within an entire subclass of humanity.

"Should you be telling us, sir?" Simon was only a few months old. He was yet to learn _Harry_.

"The Secret Service is the place secrets go to die." Harry caught Ruth smirking in his direction. "We're receiving reports that Zhang Wei, only child of Chinese president Zhang Li has died of pneumonia this morning. The press will bury it for a few weeks and then release the usual human tragedy story. Lot of teary photos. Memorial service. Grieving public."

"That's very sad," Sasha leaned against the desk, "though it doesn't strike me as something to Red Flash." She looked up as members of their team began filtering in.

"One of our agents inside the Chinese government-"

"-an agent that doesn't officially exist-" Ruth quickly interjected.

Harry nodded. "They've confirmed that Wei was indeed ill but not with pneumonia. His death was _horrific_."

"You think he was murdered?" Simon asked.

"Anything's possible but I don't like the fit. There was no reason to kill off members of the President's family. Politically the Chinese are more stable than they've been for many years – their internal security is, it vexes me to admit, better than ours and usually the family members of diplomats are kidnapped rather than killed. What has anyone got to gain?"

"Fear." It was Ruth who pointed out the darker truth to the group. "This could be a message to the President."

"All right, find out if anyone's been testing the waters around the President. Any threats or suspicious activity on my desk. We'll keep our ear to the floor in regards to chatter and Ruth – I want to know what he really died of. Was he poisoned and if so, what with? We need to understand what's going on before it spreads to any more VIPs ahead of the summit."

That was the end of the evening for all of them. Harry and Ruth's table remained empty amidst the bustling restaurant. They were trapped behind their desks, scrolling through fragments of intelligence, interrupted only by the panicked check-in calls from the Home Secretary who, at one rather low point, begged Harry to imprison a particularly callous reporter who wanted to go to press with the story while the embargo was in place.

"Maybe he just died..." Ruth threw the folder down with more distaste than she'd meant. The others looked like she felt – defeated. "Let's face it, there are a great many unknown diseases it could have simply been poor luck. The son was rather wild. I've been going through his travel logs and in the last couple of months the man visited more ports than a seagull."

* * *

The black car lingered opposite the restaurant. With the purple silk curtains pulled back and candles in every window, they had a clear view of the empty table for two.

 _'Anything?'_ A voice crackled over the phone.

"Nothing." The man in the car replied. "They're a no show."

A few minutes later the car pulled away, sinking into the night.

* * *

"You know, if you stay like that long enough you'll turn into a stone effigy." Ruth had been lurking at Harry's door for a good few minutes unable to catch his attention. Oddly, Harry didn't rise to the quip. Instead he pushed his chair from the desk and put on his jacket. "Going out?"

"Keep an eye on the team."

"What's happened..." Ruth stepped into his path.

He avoided eye contact. "Keep your ears to the ground, Ruth. Try and make contact with or agent in China."

Ruth knew that look. He wasn't ready to share so she let him go, watching indulgently until he'd cleared the pods.

* * *

"Where's Harry gone?" Sasha asked, pacing up to Ruth with a fresh cup of coffee.

The young woman reminded her of Jo. Wide-eyed, bold – loyal and dragged from the real world. They'd thieved her from the Metropolitan Police. She'd been eyeing off an appointment to 'detective' when MI5 offered her something more interesting. She was worth the effort. Her nose was in buried in everything and anything that didn't smell right.

"No idea," Ruth replied. "Are those the files on the Chinese President?"

Sasha nodded. "He was here last week, part of an interesting cluster of foreign VIPs attending a dinner in Highgarden Banks." She noted the sudden realisation in Ruth's eyes. "Exactly. He was at the dinner with Rasmussen, a table away from Harry. I remember seeing him there making eyes at the Russians."

"That doesn't necessarily mean anything."

"I know. Half our watch list was at that dinner but what might be of more interest to you is this..."

Ruth glossed over the file in front of her. "Li's son, Wei – is that some kind of camp?"

"Sort of a holiday outing for rich kids who like to go native. Adventure style activities in the privacy of Danqinghe National Forest Park, Heilongjiang Provence. We don't know much except that our operative made the trip with him. Matching travel documents. Guess who else fancied a bit of R&R..."

"No..."

Sasha nodded. "Rasmussen was already waiting for them. I doubled back on the flights in and out. He's made half a dozen trips there in the last few years. I think Wei might have been into something a little more extreme than kayaking."

"Find out what's really in Danqinghe."

Simon roamed over to Ruth once Sasha was safely at her desk.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself, Simon." Ruth cautioned. "I know you recruited her but she's better than you and sooner or later she'll unravel your recreational activities."

Simon tried to smother a laugh. "I'd be disappointed if she didn't. Wasted in the police force. Common criminals wouldn't stand a chance."

"Did you find out where Harry went?"

Simon nodded. "The bridge."

"God-dammit!" Ruth muttered. "What's he found..."

"No idea but he's taking a call on a secure line. He knows very well that we can't see what's going on. That bloody bridge is like the twilight zone. God forbid a bureaucrat ever decides to tear it down. Where would we keep our secrets then?"

* * *

"I understand..." Harry lowered his head, staring at the water rushing under the bridge beneath him. It was cold, grey and about as miserable as the mood. "Of course. Call back on this line."

He hung up, slipping the mobile into his jacket. He placed his arms on the rail and leaned on the cool steel. The London skyline was ghostly against the building cloud banks. Sometimes he wondered if this was all just an echo – an impression of civilisation lingering in a fragile moment of peace. Working for MI5 he was often too aware how close to the brink humanity played its cards. A few mistakes and it would all tumble into oblivion. A failed experiment.


	3. MALCOLM

Harry Pearce shone with a fresh dusting of rain. It rolled off his trench coat onto the desk as he circled, eyeing an array of reports Ruth had arranged in his absence. There was a buzz of commotion beyond the glass walls. Phones. Comms. TV stations picking up the first hints of the story. Impromptu meetings clustered around Ruth's desk. The usual melee that formed the pulse of MI5.

"How long have you been sitting there?" Harry asked the Home Secretary, who was immersed, scrolling through his Twitter account while drinking instant coffee in the corner of Harry's office.

William Towers was formidable when he had to be. The rest of the time he resembled a sleeping lion whose perpetual sipping equated a casual tail flick. "I quite fancied the break," Towers replied. "It's peaceful here. I can see why you hide away in your office for great swathes of the day."

"You should try investing in a lock for yours." Harry countered, draping the damp coat over his chair.

"Would it have made a difference?"

"Not to us but I do find them quite effective against prying civil servants."

"I have a surplus of those." The Home Secretary laughed, setting his coffee and phone aside. He assumed rather than asked if his office was bugged. He lived in a shell of honesty whether he liked it or not. 'Full transparency' was a burden he'd never expected to bear in politics. "The story is breaking. Our Prime Minister offered a short condolence to his Chinese counterpart a few minutes ago. I re-tweeted it, of course. One must keep up with the modern age." He added, when he sensed Harry's distaste. "Who leaked it, Harry?"

"Not us," he assured Towers. "There's no sense of decency among the vultures these days. No accountability."

"I suppose you believe that's our fault, for relaxing licensing freedom on the Press. It might have happened in 1863 but Harry Pearce knows how to hold a grudge..."

"They'll learn the hard way, that's all. Let's hope, for all our sakes, that it doesn't involve a revolution. Those get messy. Especially for politicians." There was a lingering moment of tension broken by a hefty sheet of rain hitting the window. The weather had rolled in. "You're not here about the institutionalised debauchery of the Press."

"No indeed. Not a social call either, lovely as this is." He paused as Harry's senior analyst made a pass by the glass. She kept an eye on them like a hawk trawling the fields for mice. Towers lowered his voice. "Remember that business a week back? The unfortunate-"

"I remember."

"It's been bothering me."

"Distressing as it may appear on the surface, we lose people more often than we'd like to admit. They're snatched away by god knows who into bottomless pits. You think we're shadows? There are entire countries without names in the wilderness."

"No Harry, that's not what I mean. It's Rasmussen – I've run into him before." The Home Secretary reconsidered his coffee, steeling himself with another gulp. "In another life," he began, holding Harry's eye, "I was a GP moonlighting as a middling lecturer for a bit of extra cash, scarce as it was."

Harry's 'resting face' told Towers that the legendary Harry Pearce was intimately aware of everyone's pre-history, particularly politicians responsible for national security.

"Yes well..." he cleared his throat, "it was during my libertine days. Late nineteen-seventies, practically the Dark Ages. Rasmussen gave a guest talk which I encouraged my students to attend. It was definitely him, Harry."

"You mean, you've met our missing scientist before?" Harry shifted forward on his seat, interest piqued.

"'Met' might be a bit strong but I've certainly laid eyes on the man. What I want to know is why you stripped it out of the reports. It's dumb luck that I noticed."

"What?"

"That it's not in the file, Harry. What are you playing at?"

* * *

Ruth handed the Home Secretary an enlarged photo of Rasmussen taken at the dinner. He inspected it for several minutes, a crease forming across his forehead.

"God Harry, it's hard to tell. We're delving thirty odd years into my memory. It's been watered down with a fair bit of house rum over the years – you know what I mean?" Another minute of silence. "His hair is different. Certainly he face is thinner and _younger_. He must sleep in a crypt." Apparently MI5 didn't have a sense of humour so he cleared his throat. "It could be him. The nose. I remember that. Bloody shocker. I'd have sent it back."

"There's no mention of this man lecturing, guest or otherwise, at your university. In fact," Ruth took the photo from him and slipped it protectively into the file with the rest, "there's almost no reference to him outside Denmark, China and a brief period in Australia."

"Australia?" Harry asked.

"Their laws regarding medical research are more relaxed than the US and UK. It's become a haven for top tier researchers who have enough financial backing." Ruth frowned. "If what you say is true, Home Secretary, then our already heavily redacted files are incomplete. I'll come in via the back route, see if the university has any hard copy references that were overlooked by our new light-fingered friends."

"Do you think he really could have done it? All that rubbish about immortality..."

"I hope not," Harry replied firmly. "We've got enough problems without the world's richest criminal class sticking around forever. Highlight of my week when one of them checks out."

"Ever the cynic."

"Can I escort you back to your car, Home Secretary?" Ruth asked, sensing enmity. He nodded and they left Harry alone in his office, watching the rain thicken. "You're lucky," she added, as they approached the Home Secretary's car. They waited while it pulled in and his assistants unfurled comically large umbrellas to escort him to the car. "He was in a good mood today."

"He was distracted," he replied, rather seriously. "As you well know."

* * *

 **EDINBURGH MEDICAL SCHOOL**

 **TEVIOT PLACE, SCOTLAND**

Ruth brushed her hand against the grey stone. Age leaked from the porous surface. She could smell it in the air. Edinburgh's Medical School's vaulting arches had been tempered by worn edges. The bases of its plinths were microscopic gardens riddled with flowering moss while the stone floors bore the polish from five hundred years of students washing over the tiles. Against the tide of humanity she felt like a speck of dust caught in a sunbeam, spinning for a moment in the light then lost in the shadows with the rest.

 _'It should be to your ….eft down ….idor five alpha zero.'_

Ruth slid her fingers through her hair to subtlety adjust the wire. "Say again." It made no difference, the metre thick stone walls were interfering with comms so she went old school, literally, by wandering up to a campus map.

Truthfully, the further Ruth allowed herself to sink into the university's ailing buildings the more comfortable she became. The shuffle of people mixed with dried leaves scraping down barren expanses of stone and gaping doorways where the wind howled inexplicably was everything she relished about the world. Give her something imperfect and she'd love it forever. Tortured souls – peeling paint. _'A wild rose climbing up a mould'ring wall...'_ Matthew Arnold expressed her heart better than a Hallmark card ever could.

 _'See it?'_

"Yeah. I see it." Ruth replied. 'It' was an unassuming door that led straight into a sunken theatre. The Gothic in her briefly romanticised a slab in the centre of the room with a body laid over it in pieces, a full audience of leering scholars leaning over the wooden balustrades. Ruth could almost hear them creak. A scalpel lifted – cut the air.

 _'At the back of th.. ….tre there's a room. Grey door.'_

Her footsteps echoed across the mezzanine structure until she reached the stage at its heart. There were grooves cut into the stone floor beneath, spreading out from the centre before ringing the area and vanishing into pipes. In front of her was another door.

"Keypad."

 _'Try sliding your pass down the side.'_

She did. The light turned green and its lock clicked open. "Well done Simon..."

 _'It's a school not a fortress.'_ The rest was a jumbled half-transmission from Sasha that left Ruth smirking. The hostility between those two had been rising ever since Sasha been forced to seek Simon's technical help on what turned out to be a loose cable. Crumbling egos and retaliatory quips ensued.

Ruth was careful to leave the door ajar. A flick of the light switch shuddered the room into a belligerent, neon bath. Her stomach dropped in disappointment. Despite the thematic surrounds she'd once again found herself in a filing room. Ruth eyed the sagging plastic folders.

Business as usual.

"I see you..." Ruth's index finger hovered above the record. That was the thing with paperwork – it slipped through the cracks in a overtly integrated computer empire. Tiered conspiracies could be unravelled in an instant by an innocuous receipt or forgotten file. Ruth fancied herself an archaeologist of sorts, delving through the nation's fine print.

 _ **1978, August 5** **th** **Mammalian Reproductive Ancestry. M. Rasmussen**_

She laid the file open on the floor and photographed the attached transcript. No photograph of Rasmussen but this was enough to prove that their files were being meddled with. All she had to do was find out _who_ had their hands dirty. If it turned out to be MI6, Ruth was going to beat Fisher to death with a stapler.

About to finish, Ruth found herself detained by the amusing hand written note clipped to the folder.

"Oh dear, William... How young you were." Ruth lingered, smiling at the schoolboy words before vanishing without a trace.

It was hours later before Sasha made contact.

 _'Ruth?'_

"Jesus!" Ruth hissed, startling hard enough to spill take-away coffee over her hands. Instinctively she lifted it up, licking the lid and her fingers before it dripped onto anything valuable. She'd entirely forgotten that she was wearing a wire.

 _'You alright?'_

"I'm fine, Sasha. What is it?" A train pulled into the platform, blaring its horn. The noise disturbed a pigeon who took flight, rushing dramatically in a flurry of grey. Feathers were shed, fluttering to the concrete. "My train's here."

 _'Take the third carriage. Someone will meet you there.'_

"Who?" Ruth gathered up her things, discarding the coffee as she hurried toward the train.

 _'You'll know who.'_

She heard the line disconnect in her ear. "Great. Thanks..." Ruth hissed to herself.

Stepping into the carriage, Ruth brushed by the usual squash of bodies jostling for seats. Her eyes scanned their faces, hunting for potential spies. Eventually she gave up and took her seat beside a gentleman napping against the window. His soft snores were joined by a screech as the train departed. She retrieved her phone and made a start on the transcript.

"Find what you were looking for?"

Ruth dropped the phone into her lap at the familiar voice. It emerged from one of the locked boxes inside herself where she kept the memory of people who had departed the service and by necessity, her life. There was no denying its owner...

"Malcolm? Bloody hell!" Ruth placed her hand over her heart, feeling it shudder rather violently from the shock.

He lifted his head, turning toward her. His slouch hat hid a heavily receded hairline but the large coat with its collar turned up did a poor job with his unusually dark skin. He'd been aboard. Somewhere that had claim to the sun's warmth.

"Did Harry rope you into this?"

"Oh no, I volunteered." Malcolm assured her, sitting up. The depths of his warm smile made her return in kind. "It is good to see you again."

"I thought you'd gone abroad? A grand tour like the heroes in your books."

He was holding one of them now with a dog-eared pages and a faded cover. "This is abroad," he replied. "I've learned something, Ruth. No matter how far we travel – how many borders we cross, we can't escape the service. We belong to it. Why I am I telling you..." he wondered to himself. "You learned that lesson before me."

They were quiet for a moment. Ruth thought of her lost family and Malcolm of the one he never had until she reached over, placing her hand gently on his. "It _is_ good to see you."

Malcolm nodded, then slid a miniSD card into her hand. The drop was perfect. Moments later it was securely in her bag, unseen.

"Are you coming to London?"

He shook his head. "This is my stop," Malcolm shifted, collecting his things as the train began to slow. "I've a few errands to run but if I decide to visit monuments south of the border... May I borrow your phone?"

Ruth handed it over. Malcolm stripped the memory card out and replaced it before sending a txt – to Harry – she realised later. Alone for the remainder of the trip to London, Ruth stared at the message Malcolm had sent.

 **S352**

Alpha-numeric, it could be anything. Pass-code. Locker number. Whatever it was, Harry had not replied. She wanted to know _what_ they were up to, especially if they were determined to involve her.

* * *

Malcolm tugged at his coat, dragging the material around his body. _Dunstanburgh Castle_ loomed ahead with the _North Sea_ on his right and a thin, dying strip of green dividing the ground from the bleak walls. The first wisps of fog had begun to collect on the beach. Soon their barren, pebbled shore would be replaced by an effusive second bank of clouds hiding all but the rise of _Dunstanburgh's_ broken walls. There was another ruin further along the coast. They stood as ghoulish sentries, dragging tourists in with their tragic beauty.

He blended in with the families wandering around the grounds. No one offered a second look in his direction as he peeled away to an abandoned wall. Alone, with the freezing wind rattling in the loose gravel overhead, Malcolm tugged at one of the stones. He shuffled it out of the wall revealing a hide with an old tin box. Inside was a passport, wallet, phone and Beretta 92FS Inox. Malcolm raided the stash, replaced the stone and returned to the beautiful vista.

"Oh Harry..." he muttered to the wind.

* * *

 **THAMES HOUSE, LONDON**

 **MI5 CENTRAL HQ**

Harry side-eyed his phone. He'd been waiting for some time to see Ruth's number flash across his screen. If there was something you could rely on from one war to the next, it was the train service. Without opening the message, Harry swiped the device from his desk and crossed the floor, weaving through the MI5 officers. Darkness closed in outside. The earlier rush of interest surrounding the Chinese President's son had died down, as all emergencies did. The 'shine' had worn off and the Press, bless their fickle souls, skulked onto the next headline.

Breathing space.

To his surprise, Harry picked up a tail. A slender man watched from across the street, bathing in the first glow of a street lamp wearily blinking into existence. He wondered what he'd done recently to warrant the attention. Harry gave the tail a rather pointed, lingering look hoping to discourage him. It didn't. The man waited a few minutes before pursuing.

The hard way, then.

Harry cut a few street crossings fine then swung around sharply to the left, vanishing into the London Underground. There he waited, out of sight at the bottom of the stairs for his new friend. It was an old MI5 hunt trick, playfully (and sometimes seriously) referred to as, 'the killing steps'. He was getting too old for this sort of thing. Harry could feel it in his joints as he pressed himself against the cold wall. A shallow river ran at his feet, left there by the passing storm.

Footsteps descended. They slowed as their owner paused, confronted with the sparse tunnel. Suspicion built. Harry knew exactly what was going through the man's mind. He was weighing up the risk. To pursue the a notorious spy into the unknown or risk failure. The tail hovered around indecision. Harry bit his lip, listening to the steady drip of water from the street above. Somewhere, deep below, a train ambled along.

Eventually Harry realised that he was alone.

Harry turned the tables on his new friend. Folding back over his path, he took the fire stairs to the street and hovered at the fountain. He spotted the tail leaning against a black car, deep in conversation with its driver. Making a note of the plates, Harry left the station and crossed the park. Free of prying eyes, he mingled with the crowds. The markets were in town showering the street with colour and song. He watched them impassively as though they belonged to an entirely different world. Odd, Harry couldn't remember when civilians became a separate entity to himself. When he lingered on their faces it wasn't with pity – it was _envy_.

The library played host to the celebrations. Lit up with a decidedly camp choice of colours, it beckoned people off the street. Harry was just another face, sliding into its warmth. Only now, surrounded by a forest of books, did Harry take out his phone and open Ruth's message. Malcolm's dead drop, prepared before he retired. Harry had made him swear to it before accepting his resignation. Spies. They never truly left. Especially not ones like Malcolm. Complain as he might about the endless progression of time, Malcolm was incapable of letting demons lie. If there was a way to help, he would. If Harry was honest, Malcolm was a better man than him. His deeds came from a selfless flaw in his character that longed for a better world. Harry did it because he was a talented liar with slither of ice running through his heart.

Black gloves on, he trailed his finger along the book spines leaving a streak in their dust coat. The science fiction section, of course, a tribute. The reference took Harry deeper into the shelves. Coloured, sensational covers gave way to bleak editions until the shelf ran dry. Harry stopped. The last number was S351. He checked the immediate area but he was not mistaken. Curious, he cleared part of the shelf and dipped his hand deep into the wood. He felt around, pausing at the slightly raised edge at the bottom corner. He tugged at it, peeling away the veneer covering another book.

 _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_. What else... Harry took the book and checked it out, exchanging pleasantries with the front desk.


	4. SIMON

**HARRY PEARCE PRIVATE RESIDENCE**

 **LONDON**

"What, _Harry_ is that?"

Wine sloshed into three glasses. A de-constructed book had been laid out on Harry's kitchen table with its cover flayed open in an alarming vivisection. A slim usb stick was prised from the bindings. It looked like some sad offering to a forgotten god, half-heartedly presented by a subject who'd abandoned their beliefs a long time ago.

"Malcolm's drop," he replied, nudging one of the glasses in Ruth's direction. Harry could tell by the glint in her eye that she was a few misspoken words away from ire. Her expedition to Scotland left her cold. Harry wasn't fool enough to think that she hadn't unravelled at least part of the truth.

"Expecting company?" she asked, nodding at the third glass.

"Shortly, yes." There was a pause between them where a thousand thoughts flowed by. "How was he?"

"Brown," Ruth decided to make a start on her drink. "Other than that, same old Malcolm."

"Good. It gives us a glimmer of hope, don't you think? Seeing that it's possible..."

"What's possible?"

"Life after the service." Harry swirled his glass is hand, inspecting rather than drinking.

"I rather thought it proved the opposite. You bark and he came. We're all dangling on the edge of your strings, Harry. Loyalty doesn't evaporate when we leave the building."

His face fell in disappointment. "I don't see you as 'dangling'."

Their eyes met. Hers fell first, returning to the book. It was all she could do to stop her gaze wandering the innards of his house. There was something intimate about casually drinking in his kitchen despite the formality of his dress. To think, if she'd given a different answer a few short months ago... No. madness lay in thoughts like those. She refused to acknowledge them despite the softer tone Harry had adopted as he ambled on about Malcolm's choice of book for the drop. To halt his ramblings, Ruth presented her 'gift'.

"Malcolm gave me this, I assume it's for you." She held up the other memory card. This one was newer, recently made compared to its counterpoint freed from the book. "He took the card from my phone as well."

Harry reached forward, opening his palm so that she might place it there. For a moment her fingertips brushed his palm. Harry faltered, lingering longer than he meant to. _Those_ thoughts about Ruth were always there. He wondered if she had them still. If she ever lingered on the fantasy. _'Yes, always.'_ How those words haunted him.

"Why did Malcolm take the memory from my phone?"

Her words jarred Harry into focus. "Because I asked him to."

"I better get that back, Harry."

"If we bring the evidence of Rasmussen's lecture onto the grid we might inadvertently tread on a few threads. Wake a spider. I don't fancy being wrapped up in any unpleasant webs – do you?"

"You mean _officially_ we're dropping Rasmussen's disappearance?"

"We're 'looking into it' in the same way the Prime Minister is 'looking into' his party's spending inaccuracies."

"And unofficially you've called one of your agents out of retirement for a favour. Harry, who is Rasmussen _really_ and why are we digging up his past? You're risking an awful lot."

He was about to tell her when Simon edged tentatively into Harry's hallway. Ducking into the kitchen he nodded nervously at the pair. "Harry. Ruth. I locked the door as you asked. Oh – thank you." Simon wasn't sure what to do with the glass of wine thrust into his hand so he set it down on the bench. "What's up? Jesus..." He'd seen the book.

"Simon," Harry begun, "one of your predecessors left a gift before departing the service for the Spanish sun."

Simon was shifting his attention awkwardly between his boss, Ruth and the dismantled book. The simple fact that this conversation was taking place in Harry's private house was a large enough red flag to make him wary. "Am I going to regret knowing this?"

"Probably." Ruth answered.

"Because I'm still new and-"

Harry ignored them. "Before leaving, he did something the less forgiving members of our government might consider treason. A lucky accident, according to him. Unconscious or not, once it was done it could not be undone."

"You're making me nervous..." Simon admitted. "What did he do?"

"Malcolm unlocked _Herodotus_."

Simon's wine glass overturned, flooded the bench and rolled off. There it shattered, immediately followed by a mortified Simon who flapped to the floor in a fit of slurred cursing.

"Leave it." Harry nonchalantly filled another glass and set it in front of the man.

This time Simon drank.

Ruth took some paper towel, wiping wine off Simon. "Pretend I don't know what _Herodotus_ is, assuming you're not referring to _the_ Greek historian or any number of his ethnographical works. _'This is the bitterest pain among men, to have much knowledge but not power'_. Reads better in Greek. I think he was a secret spy." She'd let her passions run away with her. Sensing their gaze, Ruth fell quiet.

Simon's hands were shaking leaving the liquid to shiver against the glass. " _Her-Herodotus_ is the country's master file. It is the database core at the centre of government, the heart from which all of our file structures feed. The moment you try and shine a light it vanishes. Like a shadow. We thought it was a myth – one of those crack-pot conspiracies in the league of Area 51."

"We?" Ruth asked.

"During training," Simon continued. "For us it was something we delved into, pissed on cheap beer in college rooms with the lights dimmed as if that would hide us from the spooks. No one believed it was real – not really." He drank the wine and shifted, hearing the _crunch_ of glass beneath his shoes. "When I entered the service I discovered that _Herodotus_ actually existed but that the system was set up in such a way that no one has access to the complete records. There's no possible level of clearance to view it. God knows what's really down there. Skeletons buried so deep the Queen herself couldn't dig them up. You can only nudge it indirectly – extract pieces of information via its slave programmes – such as the MI5 database. All of those have their own filtering systems and are susceptible to tampering. The files in _Herodotus_ can not be reached or altered. It's the sodding mothership."

"Malcolm is the only soul who has seen the country's darkest secrets," Harry added. He noted Ruth's sudden pale face and her arms folded across her chest defensibly. "He had to leave the service. If anyone – anyone at all found out they'd have him killed."

"Then why in god's name are you telling me?" Simon demanded. He was new in their ranks – green in the circles of trust and completely expendable. "I don't want a contract on my neck."

"Because I need your help."

"Harry... I don't-"

"We only require access to a very narrow band of information. You won't see anything directly. Chip-" Harry held up the older card from the book, "-and key." Ruth's smaller memory card. "Malcolm's set them to retrieve the files we require. All you have to do is slip them in and launch."

Simon was too afraid to take them. "You want me to unlock _Herodotus_ from _my_ terminal?"

"Only a tiny fragment. We're recovering Rasmussen's original file, before the tampering. All we needed was a reference to missing data," he turned to Ruth, "a reference you found in Scotland." When Simon didn't take the chips, Harry slid them into the man's suit pocket for him. "Do it _now_."

Simon scoffed the wine and left, wiping a layer of sweat that had formed under his hair line. The chips weighed heavily in his jacket. _Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm._ He muttered the mantra to himself, as he opened the door of his car and fell into the vehicle. There had been a time when he'd have drooled over the thought of possessing a key to _Herodotus_ but now that he understood the reality he felt paranoia closing in. Every pedestrian was suddenly a potential set of prying eyes. He analysed the scratches inside his car for evidence of tamper. Even the slight pause when he finally entered the pods set his heart rate soaring.

He had no reason to believe that any suspicion had settled around him. Once at his terminal, Simon made sure to acquire his usual cup of tea, make toast and settle himself so that nothing looked amiss. Then, ever so smoothly, he set the first chip into the slot and waited.

"You're late."

"Sasha..." Simon turned his chair around. _Staying calm. Staying calm._ He could feel his computer buzz, vibrating the desk as it booted the drive. "Traffic. You know how it is."

"Harry and Ruth caught in traffic too?" She inhaled, detecting alcohol in the air around him.

"I beg your pardon?"

Sasha merely lifted her eyebrow in an accusing fashion. "Remember my previous job description?"

"Plod, wasn't it?"

She shook her head and punished him with an enormous pile of files, enough to build an extension on the Himalayas. "These came in for you while you were 'delayed' by traffic activities. Enjoy."

* * *

"Do you think he'll do it?"

Harry closed the cover of the book, nudging the pieces together best he could in a foolish glimmer of sentiment. "Of course."

"You wager Simon is more afraid of you than the government. Hell of a gamble..." Ruth watched Harry carefully, unable to read those pale eyes of his. "If any of what you said to Simon is true, you're risking his life and Malcolm's. Harry – when are you going to tell me what's really going on?"

"To be honest with you, Ruth, I'm not sure yet. That _is_ the truth," he quickly added, when she sighed at him. "It's more a feeling than a fact. I'm getting an aura off this entire Rasmussen affair. We're involved in something we never intended. There are a lot of noses in the trough and we've got no idea who their owners are. What was it like up in Scotland?"

"Quiet."

"Good. Let's hope it stays that way until we get a feel for this situation." Harry was watching her again, pausing in silence for too long. "I'm being tailed."

"By whom?"

"Not sure yet."

"Could be the Americans," Ruth replied lightly. "They get bored. Something about the weather over here."

"I want you to find out who's showing an unhealthy interest in me. Maybe they are the same people tampering with our files. Right now it's all we've got."

"You want me to follow the people following you..." Ruth took the bottle of wine directly out of Harry's hand and poured herself another glass. He had the good grace to bite back a comment. "We'll have to do a dry run, tempt them into tracking you again, somewhere I can cover you."

"I took down a plate number from one of the cars. It's probably a blank but maybe you can lift something from it."

They were both surprised by a bundle of fur landing on the counter between them. The cat nuzzled Harry's hand before flicking its tail over Ruth's arm leaving a pattern of orange hair across her sleeve. There was another one, a grey blur hiding beside a shelf with bright blue eyes.

"Technically those are my cats."

Harry softened, smiling as he relinquished to the cat's demands of affection. "You gave them to me."

"Loaned, Harry." They cooed over the animal together, both wearing genuine smiles. "I didn't think you would," she added.

"What?"

"Look after my cats – when I left to – well, when I left."

"You asked me to."

"I know but..." It didn't matter.

"These silly things," Harry nodded at the feline between them, "they were the only proof that you were real. So often our kind – we file through the world without leaving a shred of evidence. There's a reason they call us 'spooks'."

"Don't fret, Harry. I've seen your paperwork trail – it's extensive."

They laughed. The cat tired of them and they found themselves lingering in a comfortable silence. "I had to brush up on my Latin. To read the – postcard." He instantly regretted raising it. Neither had mentioned the message she'd managed to smuggle to Harry after her 'death'. He certainly wasn't going to admit that it sat, to this day, in the drawer beside his bed.

"Oh – yes... I wasn't sure that would make it to you." Obviously it had. She wondered how he'd gone about translating it without arousing prying looks from his co-workers.

"The internet was very helpful," he added.

"I'm glad to hear you've found a use for it at last." The warm burn of wine in her throat reminded her that it was only early in the afternoon. "We'll be missed if we don't return to the grid. They'll assume the worst."

"What is the worst, Ruth?"

"That we've eloped in a torrid affair threatening national security." It was meant lightly.

"Haven't we?"

Ruth reached across the kitchen bench and placed her hand on his arm. He surprised her by turning it over beneath her hold so that his hand lightly cupped her elbow. An action so simple that to others might be harmless. With them, it was everything.

"What _are_ we doing, Harry? You never finished explaining. If you've brought Malcolm into this then you've got to be more worried than you're letting on. Drag me in all you want but I'm not going to let you risk that young boy without a little more."

Harry looked down at their entwined arms. "It's a favour – to and old friend. One that I must honour – or at least, attempt to, best I can with what I have."

"The Chinese President..."

He slid his arm away from hers in acknowledgement. She had found him out. "Does nothing escape you?"

"Nothing of importance," she replied, mourning the loss of is touch. Their moments were brief as it was. "Is the debt you owe him so extraordinary as to warrant risking your future in the service?"

"It is and more so again. Not only that, this is the right thing to do, Ruth. If we do not take steps toward that path then what is the point of us?"

"I think that's enough wine for you this afternoon. Best to stop at self pity before you stumble and fall into the abyss of existentialism."

"As always, you are quite right."

"The death of Zhang Wei. The President doubts his son's death is of natural causes."

"And Rasmussen's co-incidental dealings with him and subsequent disappearance adds weight to his suspicions."

"You think Rasmussen killed Zhang Wei?"

"No. He's a researcher not a murderer," Harry crossed the kitchen, slipping the wine glasses away whilst avoiding the cats. "Though it is likely that they are connected. That is why we must see Rasmussen's original files. We'll know more then."

"Be careful..." Ruth cautioned.

"Great deeds are usually wrought at great risks."

"Herodoctus..."

"I am not half so simple as you might imagine me."

A smile crept onto Ruth's lips. " _Simple_ you are not, Mr Pearce. I can think of _many_ adjectives that suit you better."

"I pray that I remain ignorant of them."

* * *

 **THAMES HOUSE, LONDON**

 **MI5 CENTRAL HQ**

"Are you going to hang around my desk all day?"

Sasha wasn't perching at Simon's desk but she was certainly lingering at the peripherals. "I'm nowhere near your desk," she replied, idly flicking through a report. "This is Johanna's desk."

"Co-incidentally the closest desk to mine."

"Also known as _paranoia._ "

"There's nothing going on." Simon insisted, trying to ignore the flashing icon on his screen. He had to find a way to slip the second memory disk in without her noticing before something dire transpired – like men in black masks storming the office, his computer self destructing or any manner of cataclysm he'd managed to invent during the drive over.

"You have a very guilty face."

"This is my normal face."

"Straight out of uni into the service. So young..."

"We're the same age," he reminded her. Even then Sasha refused to move, sitting on the edge of Johanna's desk while she revised the security details for the Prime Minister's lunch. There was nothing he could do about it without casting even more suspicion over himself. No choice. He'd have to go ahead and do it.

 _Whoosh._

Ruth Evershed emerged from the pods and immediately clocked Sasha, waving her over. Simon swooped on the opportunity, inserting the second stick. A terminal session opened on its own and started typing blind command lines. He tried to move his mouse to hide the screen but he'd lost all control of his computer. He was now a passenger to what would surely be the beginning of a lengthy jail term.

Simon felt droplets of sweat condense around his collar as a home screen appeared. It was a nightmare. A list of logins appeared. He watched with horror as their passwords were filled. The Prime Minister. Leader of the Opposition. Director of MI6. Director of MI5. The Navy. Army. Air Force. The list of logins trailed on until the final name made Simon shake. _HRH The Queen_.

He was going to jail. For the rest of his life. This was the end.

* * *

It was a pleasant cafe clinging to the last vestiges of rock before the ocean. Over the years the North Sea chewed at the cliffs, dragging them into the sea leaving the building propped up on a precipice exposed to the weather. Malcolm sat at one of the tables along the window, facing France.

"Thank you, dear." He said, as a tea set was placed down beside his laptop. Malcolm calmly took a moment to add sugar while the terminal on his laptop waited. "Come on... you can do it..." he muttered to the screen. Harry had assured him that the young agent would come through for them but at the moment he seemed _hesitant_.

All at once things went live. Malcolm abandoned his tea and set about thrashing his hands over the keyboard. "Let's rock and roll..."

The first thing he did was lock the young-en out to prevent any last minute crisis of conscious. After that, his programme cracked straight through into _Herodotus_ and launched a phishing service. Rasmussen's files downloaded directly to the untraceable print logs. It was over before it had begun. No trace.

Malcolm finished by sending a pop-up notification to his new friend.

* * *

Simon leaned forward, squinting at the message in the centre of his screen.

 **[ CHECK PRINTER :) ]**

The printer lurched into life, sucking up streams of paper. Simon startled at the sound. He swiped the two sticks from his computer, shoved them in his pocket and hunted over to the printer where he tried to look casual as a hundred pages filled the tray.

* * *

"How is your tea?"

"Oh – lovely," Malcolm replied, nodding at the cafe's owner. He loved this part of the world. It was wild in the most beautiful sense. Harsh in its powerful ambiance. Bleak like a poet's verse. "Would you excuse me? I need to make a call." Malcolm foraged for his phone and dialled Harry's number. _"Bob here. Got those ceramic pots you were after. Cash on pick up."_ He hung up and returned to his tea.

Harry was the next in through the pods, swanning across the office with his sharp eyes checking each member of staff. His deep seated paranoia ranged from espionage to time wasting. He was immediately drawn to Simon nervously focussed on his tea cup as though it were the only beacon of light in a dark universe.

A few minutes later, the young tech was treading water in Harry's office, cradling a sizeable folder of paper to his chest.

"I'm not sure about this."

"You did well," Harry assured Simon, gently reaching forward to pry the file from his arms. Eventually he relinquished and produced the two chips which Harry immediately hid in the many layers of his suit.

"Then why do I feel like I betrayed my country?"

Harry stopped, addressing the young man very seriously. He placed his hand on the man's shoulder, letting the weight of it sit with him. "Many have stood where you do now," he replied. "Sometimes, in order to serve our country we must first break her."

Simon lowered himself into the sofa and set his eyes past Harry, looking instead at the grey expanse outside the window. "How many times does it take," he asked, "until the guilt fades?"

"If you're a true agent it deepens every time. That's what separates the great from the good."


	5. SASHA

**THAMES HOUSE, LONDON**

 **MI5 CENTRAL HQ**

"Oh Christ..." Harry spent the afternoon submerged in the _Herodotus_ file, swearing idly at the alarming litany of chaos housed within. It seemed their scientist's research had progressed a lot further than any of their governments were willing to admit – primarily because they were busy bidding over the potential profits of his assumed success. Through his brilliance, Rasmussen had turned himself into a security nightmare. What an idiot.

"You're always making new friends."

" _Knocking_ , Ruth. We've discussed it before."

Oblivious to his squawks, Ruth swooped into Harry's office. "I've run the plates and believe it or not, we got a match. One of ours. Almost. Did you do something to upset our parents over at MI6?" Harry was making a face at her so Ruth shrugged and added the report to his shambolic desk. "They're probably following you looking for Rasmussen – poor sods. Blind leading the blind."

"Don't feel too sorry for them," Harry straightened up and instantly regretted the action as most of his spine cracked into alignment with a series of aftershocks. It must have been loud enough for Ruth to hear because she cringed. "Their prints are all over these files Simon recovered. Where did everyone go?"

"It's late," Ruth replied. "You've been glued here all afternoon and most of the evening. I considered coming in earlier to poke you with a pencil and check you were alive."

"I guess I should thank you for not indulging in that particular fantasy."

"You're welcome."

"And you – you're still here." For a brief moment he thought the reason might have been compassion but Ruth's eyes sank to the file spread over his desk and he realised he'd mistaken curiosity for sentiment. "Ah... You want to see the file."

"Of course I want to see the bloody file. I'm in this up to my knees and the tide is coming in."

He grabbed a handful that he'd already read and offered it to her. "You're not going to like this."

* * *

Shoes discarded. Couch claimed. Pages falling to the floor beside her. Ruth descended into the perfect storm.

"Fuck's sake, Harry-" she started to say but found another clump of paperwork thrust into her field of view. "My god..." it got worse. Eventually she ceased acknowledging him entirely and mumbled only to the pages in her hands. "The Chinese government own our Danish scientist. They took a gamble on him early, funded his research – supported his theories when the rest of the world wrote him off as a 'grasping idealist' and-"

"-and then he did the unthinkable," Harry finished Ruth's sentence, "and succeeded."

"He engineered a virus to deliver a slight alteration to our genetic make-up that in turn, successfully reversed the aging process in a human subject. He used himself as the living, breathing, walking, talking proof."

"Pandora's Box."

"Every narcissist with a wallet has crawled out of the shadows. World leaders. Bankers. CEOs. Warlords..." The list trailed on toward the infinite. "This guy..." she held up a particularly notorious photo which made Harry smirk in sadistic appreciation. "Rasmussen is more valuable than the whole sodding Gulf at the moment."

"Odd – that he would risk travelling before securing a deal with any of the interested parties."

"Or that China would allow him to. I thought they might exercise squatter's rights to his research."

"Which is a kind way of saying, 'hostage'." Harry, who was further ahead in the reading, passed her another piece of information. "The kidnapping was a ruse. Rasmussen needed to disappear for his safety and he picked London as the stage with half the world leaders present. We already know that he and President Li were friends. Perhaps Li helped."

"So..." Ruth mused, standing up so that she could strut, bare foot around his office. "Is the kidnapping a smokescreen or did someone take advantage?"

* * *

Simon faced off against the bottle of cheap tequila. In the lamp-light of his barren flat it beckoned him with its glassy curves and tasteful streak of colour running across the otherwise faded label. The blurb promised to erase his problems with a slow burn of classic satisfaction. He knew the reality to be quite different yet still he was irrationally drawn to its hollow promises.

He slid the chipped shot glass closer and reached for the bottle's hilt.

"Born in a sheep shed out back yonder, I imagine." Simon accused the bottle.

 _Knock. Knock._

"What now..." Simon sighed and pried himself from the kitchen bench, wandering toward his front door. It was too late to be a friend which meant it was probably his useless, junkie neighbour looking for a fiver to get him through to Saturday. He made a pledge to move somewhere better. This place was a shit hole.

"The hell did you find me?" Simon frowned at his visitor.

Sasha, ever impeccable, loitered at his door holding a pizza box. "Good evening..."

"If that is some gift to ply information out of me you needn't bother. There's nothing to tell and if there was I intend to be too drunk to remember before you have a chance to ask again."

"Well actually I had something to share with you but if you'd rather bury yourself in self pity I can try George."

If there was one thing that Simon hated more than anything, it was George knowing more than him. "Fine." He stepped aside. Sasha brushed past him, enticing Simon to follow with a waft from the pizza box. "You know, you're not supposed to go through our personal files."

"I didn't," she set the pizza on the bench next to the ominous bottle of tequila. Clearly she'd interrupted an intimate night in. "I followed you home."

Simon was struck. "I'm not sure how I feel about that."

"I have no interest in how you feel about anything. Sit."

Suddenly feeling like a guest in his own flat, Simon did as he was told and took refuge on one of his bar stools. Sasha boldly searched through his cupboards, returning with plates and another glass for herself. She even opened the bottle for him and poured their first round. Taped inside the pizza box was a file she'd smuggled out of the office while Ruth was distracted worrying over their boss which was a pointless exercise.

"If this is going to be a state secret," Simon started, eyeing the file warily, "I think I'll give it a pass for tonight."

The file was slightly saggy from the steam and stained with grease but Sasha didn't seem to mind. She retrieved the sad looking thing, unfolding it on the bench in front of them. Inside were copies of booking reservations and bank account numbers.

"Let's be clear," Sasha lowered her voice. "I _know_ you, Ruth and Harry are digging around Rasmussen and for whatever reason, I'm on the outside. That's fine. We're spies – I get it." She meant that honestly. "When I was a detective, sharing information was paramount to success but in the service the opposite appears to be true. If my boss is delegating information between the team then I'm prepared to accept that. I've been thinking."

"That wise?"

Sasha smirked. "Of taking a sideways approach to the whole Rasmussen affair. I decided to do a little casual digging around the dinner where Rasmussen gave his presentation before vanishing in a puff of fairy dust – that proved a lot easier."

"Does Harry know you're doing this?"

"What Harry doesn't know can't make him angry." Words to live by. "Here. Bank deposits. Email threads. Officials bookings. The dinner was a joint effort between MI6 regulars and President Zhang."

"The Chinese Government?"

"No. Zhang paid for it himself. The flights. Accommodation. All of it has come out of his personal account then MI6 handled his security arrangements – by giving babysitting rights to the director of MI5. Keeping their involvement at arm's reach. Why else would the Home Secretary force Harry to be there? I think the intention was to hand Rasmussen directly over to MI6 under the guise of a kidnapping."

"Is that what happened?"

"Maybe..." Sasha shrugged. "I didn't get a good look at the team that lifted him – only that they were prepared and well funded."

"If MI6 has got Rasmussen, why not tell us?"

"I guess that depends on _why_ they've got him."

"So that's why we barely felt the slap on the wrist for losing him." Simon took two shots and hunted out a piece of pizza. "Do you follow all your colleagues home?"

"Only the cute ones." Sasha goaded him. Her interest was firmly set in the information that Simon was yet to share. Underneath the smiles and pleasantries she was a hard one. There was a reason she'd switched from the force to the service. For a long time Sasha realised that her life was better spent unravelling criminality from the world. It was all she had a talent for and the only thing she truly enjoyed. Everything else was a fleeting distraction.

"We've been working together for nearly five months and I feel I hardly know you."

"You know me," Sasha insisted, but Simon was shaking his head.

"No. I doubt anyone knows you." The shot glass filled again. Clear poison. It fell flat on his lips. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. None of my business at all."

Sasha's expression hadn't changed. "Isn't that the point, though? In this job..."

"I'm not sure anyone believes that except you."

The tequila shattered, spraying Sasha's face with glass. Instinctively she swiped a hand across her eyes, wiping away the torrent of alcohol only to find blood dripping from her hands. "Simon!" she hissed, ducking down below the bar. Simon crumpled to the floor, hitting the ground with a sickening thud beside Sasha. His eyes were open, peering into hers as the last moment of life paled into nothing. His forehead was ripped apart, peeled back and destroyed by a single bullet. An execution.

Alcohol and blood soaked her from above, raining down in a waterfall from the edge of the bar. Glass tingled to the ground. Sasha crawled forward, moving around the couch to glimpse the window facing the city. One of panels was smashed.

A second one exploded. Sasha fell against the couch, hiding as the bullet sheered off part of the wall beside her. The shots were silent, crossing the distance between the high-rises as a breath of air – no more.

"Oh Christ!" She fumbled for her purse. Sasha tried not to look at Simon's body, awkwardly lifeless to her right. The only exit as the front door. She had minutes, maybe, before someone came to check their kill.

Shaking, Sasha reached up, feeling along the top of the bench for the file. The soggy paper slid onto the floor where she folded it up and shoved it into her bag. A pizza box followed, eliciting a frightened shriek. Ruthlessly, Sasha searched Simon's Jean pockets for his wallet, making sure his pass for MI5 was in there. Then, ignoring the glass cutting through her trousers, she used the furniture as a shield to make her way to the door. Protected by a slice of concrete Sasha listened. Through the peep hole she saw an empty corridor. It remained that way as she slid out of the apartment onto the landing. Half a dozen floors down, two dozen above. Fire door opposite. _Never trap yourself in there._

 _Slam._

They came in the front and started up the stairs. _Shit._ She had no choice but to climb.

* * *

"This is getting worse," Ruth complained, bringing in another pair of tea cups. "Harry? Sorry..." She'd disturbed a moment of sleep that had set upon him. He woke mid-snore.

"No, it's alright. We need to finish this then ditch the file where it won't be found. We can't leave it on the grid. Hot. Hot. Hot..." he complained, hurriedly setting the cup down with several other corpses. "Have you reached the part where Russia failed to make a play for Rasmussen during a lab break in before he left China?"

"Yes and the following disappearance of the agent who bungled it suspected to be the body that arrived via airmail in pieces to the SVR RF, not that they have any intention of confirming that within our lifetime. Says here that the agent was surprised by the _Cosa Nostra's_ henchman who have, shall we say, a flair the dramatic. He was one of Bernardo Provenzano's boys picked up on his way back to Italy by none other than our old friends at MI6. After his tongue was plied he was found hanged by his own shoelaces in a London hotel room. Either self inflected or retaliatory for breaking the Omertà. That's the grand summary of our intelligence."

"None of which gets us any closer to the President's son." Harry's phone rang. It was half-past eleven.

"Are you going to answer that?"

 _'Harry Pearce.'_

* * *

 _'They've killed him!'_ Sasha hissed at her phone, backing into the shadows. She was hidden away several floors above Simon's flat, unable to move any further as a team of balaclava clad operatives swarmed the stairwell beneath. At any moment one of them might look idly in her direction. _'Jesus, Harry!'_

 _'Sasha – is that you? Where are you?'_

Sasha held the phone to her chest, falling silent as the men below her picked the lock on Simon's flat then pushed in. _'Simon's. He was executed. There's a team here cleaning the place. Professionals. They know he had company. If they're half as smart as I fear they are, it's only a matter of time before they come looking for me. I can't get out. What do I do, Harry?'_

She listened carefully then hung up. To her right was an apartment with a light coming from under the door. Sasha sidled over to it. She knocked and waited for the bedraggled student that lived within to open. As soon as the lock shifted Sasha forced her way in, thrusting the teen against the wall of his own flat with her hand firmly over his mouth. His eyes went wide, bulging in fear.

"I'm not here to hurt you," she whispered, keeping the struggling creature steady. Drugs reddened his eyes. "I work for Her Majesty's Government and all I need from you is to borrow a match. Can you do that for me?" The man nodded beneath her hold. He couldn't tear his eyes away from her face. Sasha didn't realise that it was sprayed with blood, starting from her jaw stretching all the way into her hair. "Okay. I'm going to let you go." Sasha watched him carefully. One peep out of him and the creatures downstairs would be on them. They could have no qualms about a killing a few civilians if they had already so brazenly executed a spy.

Sasha rolled up an electronics magazine she found laying on a nearby table and set it alight. She held it up to one of the smoke alarms in the kitchen and wafted the smoke toward it. "Come on, come on..."

It took an alarming amount of smoke to set it off. A few cycles from the screeching device and it spread, automatically tripping the fire alarm for the entire block of flats. Moments later, doors were opening everywhere. Confused, tired people emerged in various states of undress and took to the stairs. Sasha threw the burning embers under a tap then joined the masses, spiralling toward the exit. As she passed Simon's door,she glanced over. It was closed with no trace of anything amiss except for the lock left on an angle where they'd broken through. Minutes later she was on the street.

* * *

"Simon's dead."

Ruth lifted her hand to her mouth. She stood beside his death, sick with a void that was meant to harbour guilt but instead surged with the inevitable. They would never know who killed Simon only that it was ordered by their own. Retribution. Protection. Paranoia from above.

"We killed him," Ruth breathed, closing her eyes in distaste.

Harry stood up at once. "Sasha's on the ground. That's our priority."

"Do you want me to call the team in?"

"Can't risk it," Harry gathered together the innards of Rasmussen's file. "I'll deal with this myself."

"What about _this_?"

"I'm locking it in the safe. You stay here. If you see anything you don't like – burn it. You've got the codes."

"And your tail?"

"Heaven help anyone who tries to follow me tonight. Friendly or otherwise."

Ruth took up residence in Harry's chair. She gathered everything together and piled it into Harry's safe beside his desk. _Incinerator_ was a more accurate name. After it was closed Harry had one code to open the cabinet and another to reduce everything inside to ash. Sitting in Harry's place, Ruth realised that all of their desks were visible from his – including Simon's. Its emptiness seemed vast. So very final. How often did Harry meditate on these abandoned, fleeting monuments? Is that why she caught him staring into nowhere or lingering by the glass?

* * *

 **SOUTHWARK CATHEDRAL, LONDON**

The pale arches towered above, meeting in a succession of geometric patterns that blurred together, resembling the innards of a spine. Sasha sat at its heart, facing the pulpit. The building was empty. Her thoughts echoed into the vaulted ceiling while the few candles left burning had almost met their end in the sand. Those that died left trails of smoke sinking in the cold. Religion had no hold over her but the emptiness of the building left her with a silence that she filled with the sound of breaking glass. She lived it over and over. The moment Simon ceased. Turned off as one might snuff a candle. She wondered how, with such ease, they might die.

His footsteps were measured, pacing down the isle until the creak of the ailing wood signalled her boss's arrival at the pew behind.

"Are you hurt?" Harry asked.

They both faced the stage. "I'm fine."

"Simon?"

"Dead. As I said."

Harry did not do her the injustice of asking if she was sure. Her tone was stoic – professional. "Did anyone see your face?"

"No. The shots were fired long range from behind, through the window on building opposite. By the time those bastards came to check I was upstairs. I thought it would be unwise to leave his security passes in the flat." She offered Simon's wallet which Harry took. "Harry..."

For the first time, Sasha twisted around. Half her face was marred with Simon's blood. It stained the front of her shirt, diluted by the tequila. There were shards of glass protruding from her forearm left unnoticed. Blood dripped from their incursions onto the floor. Harry had followed that morbid trail all the way through the church.

" _I_ went digging, without your permission. _I_ brought what I'd found over to Simon's flat. _I_ found a paper trail between Rasmussen, China and MI6. Did _I_ do this? Is Simon dead because of me?"

Harry felt Sasha's eyes searching his – getting nowhere. Her steely expression was betrayed by glistening deposits of un-shed tears, caught in the dying candlelight. "You didn't do this," he promised her. "I did."


	6. MI6

**THAMES HOUSE, LONDON**

 **MI5 CENTRAL HQ**

"I wasn't aware MI5 appointed a new Director of operations..."

Ruth Evershed summoned every shred of professionalism within her patriotic bones as Siviter barged into Harry's office. It was all she could do to stop herself throwing the furniture at him. There was no absolute proof that MI6 was behind Simon's execution but she was pretty bloody sure they knew about it. At the very least someone over there had given a nod and a wink in the direction of a rifle.

"Harry's out." The frost was tangible.

Siviter was not discouraged. He closed the door and stormed up to the desk, bending his considerable height over it. Both palms met the wood as he looked Harry's Senior Intelligence Analyst in the eye.

"Where is he?"

"I've no idea."

A few moments later he realised Evershed was being honest. That was just like Harry. He kept everyone in the dark including his own. He argued it was for their protection but Siviter had long suspected its roots lay in Cold War arrogance. _Real spies_ as Harry once called them. All that dogma was a layer of grime caught on Thames House's skirting boards. SIS had no such problem. It was all sand over there. Fucking desert muck.

"Have you tried the coffee shop downstairs?" Ruth added.

"Do not play with me Evershed, I'm in no mood for MI5 hospitality. My balls are in a vice and Harry's bloody well going to join in on the fun."

"You are welcome to wait." Ruth offered.

"I will. I'll wait right here."

That's what he did. With his ridiculous lime green tie, he skulked over to the window and stormed up and down the office showing no inclination to sit or take tea. Ruth offered him nothing. Beyond that glass Sasha crossed the office to take her place among the team without acknowledging Simon's empty desk.

* * *

"Morning Sasha."

"Morning Joanne," Sasha replied with false cheer, dragging her chair in. "Dad's here."

Joanne glanced at the Director of MI6 sealed within Harry's office like some kind of shark making a pass. "Indeed he is. Have we been naughty or nice?"

"Who knows. Nothing to do with us. Simon arrived yet?"

"I'm not his keeper. Owes me a bloody security report I asked for yesterday." Joanne shrugged. Her ringlets bounced oddly around her square jaw, framing her in all the wrong ways. She was an anti-thesis to Vogue, pseudo-hipster-minimalism taken too far. Somewhere along the line Joanne had switched out coffee and fags for vodka and adrenaline. The result was a pending nervous wreck that Sasha liked to wind if the opportunity presented itself.

"Fair enough."

"And Sasha?" Joanne snapped at the new agent. She didn't like cops in the service. Territorial, self righteous do-gooders with more emotion than sense. They had short life expectancies so why bother with the pleasantries? "Stop sitting on my desk when I'm away. I know you do it and while you're doing it you take leave to finger reports above your clearance. I notice."

"I was hoping you'd take it as a hint."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Well," Sasha barely lifted her attention from checking a bewildering log of emails. "I did you the common courtesy of leaving evidence that I peruse your things. The other members of this office might wipe their prints off and straighten everything up when they're done but they are no less curious." Joanne was too scandalised to reply so Sasha continued. "Secure files go in the hold. You know that. Complain to Harry if you like but I wouldn't want to be the one admitting to insecurely storing mission reports... You've got dead children washing up and an MIA agent in a politically unstable corner of Gabon. Sounds like a busy morning to me."

Joanne's eyes were pits from the depths of Vesuvius. "I'll let you know when Simon comes in."

"Appreciated."

Joanne turned heel and sought security in the kitchen. For a moment Sasha caught her reflection on a tumbler of water. Simon's eyes flickered across the cheap, crystalline surface. Dead. Staring. Subconsciously her thumb traced the bandage on her wrist. Last night seemed like a dream. A truly appalling affair. Her boss spent the night on her half-collapsed couch, pulling shards of glass from her with tweezers, stitching the worst with only the vaguest of skill. He was very polite about it but if Sasha was honest, the pain had been welcome. It helped tie her to reality.

He'd confessed Simon's role. She was prepared for what came next.

* * *

"Jools... Good to see you out of your crypt," Harry entered his office, disturbing the tense peace between Ruth and the Director of MI6. "New tie?"

"Dammit Harry!"

Harry made a pass at the desk, enjoying the sight of Ruth occupying his chair and even more so when she made no effort to vacate the position. Ruth sat there, hands curling around the armrests possessively. Brevity was essential at times like these.

"I propose a truce," Harry announced.

Siviter was far from amused. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"We got curious because you got lazy," Harry continued. His voice was steel edged, like a bar held above Siviter's head. "It ends here. I won't take retribution for my agent – we swear to stay away from the cookie jar. Consider it message received. Loud and clear." He lifted his hands to his head. "My ears are still ringing."

"You've gone _mad_."

"I think not." Jools better not play the ignorant shit because Harry wasn't in the mood. "We'll let this terrible fiction play out. Rasmussen's not worth another life to me. Whatever mess you've gotten yourself into over him Jools, you can deal with it on your own terms as long as you vacate my office."

MI6 were in possession of the best poker faces in town. Jools Siviter used his now, static in front of Harry. "You're giving up this ridiculous obsession with the missing Danish researcher?"

"I don't have the stomach for watching the young wasted any more." Harry's words sank through the room with honestly, enough to pull Jools with them, line and sinker.

"You're getting too soft for this job, Harry."

"That's why there are people like you, Jools. You petrify as you age. By the time they're ready to roll you into retirement there'll be nothing left but opalised rock. Am I to take this an official warning? Or would you rather we stay off-script for now... Let this be a scribble in the margin."

"Warning about _what_?" Jools stormed out of Harry's office, slamming the door in answer as he left. The glass shivered. Every head went up then back down even faster like an office full of meerkats.

"Jesus..." Ruth held her face in her hands. "Ruthless bastards. Are we shutting the investigation down?"

"Course we're bloody not. I've got to go out there and tell those men and woman that a brilliant agent who served his country with honour was killed in a soured drug deal. I have to sully his reputation and I swear to you, Ruth, it won't be for nothing. We're going dark, not dead. Bring everyone into the conference room. I want to get this charade over before my conscience re-surfaces."

"Yes, Harry..."

* * *

"Does he know?"

"Does Harry know _what_?" William Towers asked, tossing a handful of torn up bread to the waiting beaks. There was a thick cluster of pigeons around the park bench where he sat, bobbing their heads, cooing loudly. The birds made it impossible for anyone to eavesdrop.

The lake in front of him was riddled with gondolas, closed water lilies and a veil of mist that couldn't find the will to fully lift once the sun rose. Above and around the first buds were forming on the willows, weeping toward the water. Through the idealistic vista – the broken outline of commercialism. It hung like the bank of clouds on an approaching storm.

Siviter kicked away a bird that got too close to his shoe. "I paid him a visit this morning. If I know Harry which, regrettably, I do... He's gone and barked up all the right trees. You were supposed to lead him to the Chinese, not my front door."

Towers ripped apart another slice of bread. "I can't control the inferences Harry draws. I'm a politician not a spy and you expect me to manipulate the best of your league? Why don't you just tell the bugger? He's going to work it out, one way or another. He'll be a martyr about it too. Petrol. Lighter. Steps of parliament. God, that's the last thing we need."

"I don't think so, Bill."

"Lying to Harry is not something I enjoy." Towers insisted sternly.

"Neither do I. This is bigger than us, Towers but it's personal for Harry. We can't allow it be personal. There is too much at stake – a good deal more than your political life expectancy. No, we keep him clear of this whole disaster."

"I let you kill a boy, Siviter. Don't make me regret that any more than I already do. Back off from Harry."

"Back off? _Back off_?" Siviter's indignation was palpable. "Do you have _any idea_ how much I had to give up to stop them from removing Pearce and crippling MI5? Right at the worst bloody time... The overbearing 'they' were several shades of apocalyptic when they found out _Herodoctus_ had been breached – by one of our own, no less. If I have to kill another boy to protect Harry Pearce – I'd do it again. So would you." He felt sick. The writhing sea of grey and white at his feet only made it worse. "Make sure that the agent's family receive a full pension. His sister..."

"Already done."

There was a silence between them. Siviter momentarily flirted with the idea of growing into the bench and becoming part of the scenery while the world was worth observing. He was terrified of what lay on the horizon. This peace – this serenity – it was about to die.

"Bill, you and I know the boy didn't break into the system on his own. Harry had someone else on this. I've got a pretty firm hunch about who that might be. Now we've done everything possible to make Simon look like some kind of boy-genius for the benefit of our lords and masters. The truth is buried so long as Harry let's it lie."

"And the President's son?"

"He's only the first chapter of our nightmare. If we make another mistake this dream that was Rome..." He sighed, drawn to the partially hidden shadow of London. "Well, it was a lovely dream."

"Siviter... You might be in danger of becoming a good man."

The Director of MI6 stood, facing the cold wind, slick with dew. He tucked his tie deeper into his vest. "Don't let on. Fear keeps the mob honest."

* * *

"You've knocked. What's wrong?"

She wondered if she should give that reply categorically or summarily. Ruth nervously checked the corridor behind before continuing. "It's ah – nothing... Really." She stammered, conscious of the possibility that they were being listened to. Lingering MI6 interest could last weeks for a good cause.

"God's sake woman, either come in or leave me be. Don't loiter at the threshold."

"Drinks at mine." Ruth dead-panned.

Harry's pen slipped from his fingers onto the desk. He looked up. Ruth's expression was not what he expected. He'd seen her like this before when the grid was compromised. Lying, as it turned out, was not her strongest attribute. Unfortunate for a spook. "Drinks..." He repeated, treading her fiction carefully so as not to break it.

Ruth assaulted the veneer on his door with nervous fingers. He feared that without it she'd tumble away. "Yes drinks." She confirmed, holding his eye. "Tonight? Commiserations. I'm not sure I want to be alone after..."

That was probably excuse enough to convince anyone that might be listening, so he agreed with a nod and she left. They said nothing else to each other for the remainder of the day. After his briefing outlining Simon's unexpected death Harry couldn't bear to see any of their mournful faces or tolerate the shocked whispers rippling around the grid. That poor boy deserved better. Bullet through the back of the head in front of another officer – shameful.

He was surprised at Sasha. Her response was almost too cold. She lingered at the back of his meeting, staring at the images with morbid fascination. Working in homicide, she was no stranger to death. It took a certain kind of person to look violence in the face. Her living room was evidence of that. Images of her old case files were pinned to the wall like art.

Later that night, with an unshakeable spook in tow, Harry paced outside Ruth's door. He'd exchanged his suit jacket for a brown leather piece in the hope that this resembled a social call. He knocked.

When the door opened, Harry forgot why he was there.

Ruth leaned against the frame with a disarming look. One of her soft cardigans was pulled around her form while her hair, longer than usual, was haphazardly clipped off to the side. It was conservative mayhem that could only be _Ruth_.

Their light came from a street lamp on the next corner. Its poor attempt left them shrouded in deep shadows, cast by her building.

"I brought the aforementioned drink with me," he said, holding up the bottle for inspection. That was enough to permit him entrance but not before Ruth curved unexpectedly towards him, wrapping her arm around his back as she pecked him warmly on the cheek. He was caught off guard but as soon as the door closed, her act fell away. "You haven't invited me for drinks." Harry stated.

"No and you've grown another tail. Green overcoat beside the Peugeot."

"And _you_ decided to give him a show. A spy to the core, Ruth." He was almost proud. "He's useful to me at the moment," Harry shrugged out of his jacket and followed Ruth into her living room. She darted around him, flicking on an alarming array of lamps. How could one woman own so many sources of light? There were even beads of them strung up across one of the walls. Harry was momentarily distracted, wandering over for a closer look until he spotted her collection of CD's compressed into the shelf below. It wasn't until Ruth cleared her throat behind him that Harry returned to the present. "What's going on?" he asked, taking a seat on the couch.

"That Chinese contact of yours that doesn't exist. They've made contact."

"I was starting to worry."

"Keep worrying," she advised. "They can't talk to us – or won't."

"You mean, they want to arrange a meet before they'll talk."

"We can't do it though, can we? MI6 is on us like a rash. If we open communication with an operative in China they'll notice and send in the cavalry."

"Let me think." While he did that, Harry set what appeared to be a takeaway between them on the couch. Ruth untied the plastic handles and groaned.

"God dammit... What do you expect me to do with this?"

"I can't leave it on the grid," Harry explained. "There are too many people sniffing around. Even if Siviter meant his cry of peace earnestly he'll be under pressure from above to recover the information we sequestered. I'm not ready to raze it. Not at the price we paid. Do you still have that loose floorboard?"

"For the record," Ruth replied, picking up the bag in a sign of agreement, "my house is not an extension of your locker room. I might have said no."

She hid the _Herodotus_ file and returned where she found Harry relaxed against the cushions, eyes closed, fitting in with her decor as if he were meant to be part of the sentimental objects littering the room. A fixture in her life. He was already that. She wished, to whatever god bothering to listen, that she didn't imagine him there most nights while she read alone. Her thoughts of him – the idea of Harry – existed on a precipice. He was the twilight hours of her day. There he stayed, safe as an _idea_.

"Do you intend to stare at me all night?"

Ruth bit her lip, caught. "All night? How presumptuous."

"Our ruse must convince my new friends waiting dutifully outside. If I leave now they'll suspect my visit is professional."

"Or that you were thrown out for impropriety." Against her better judgement, Ruth spoke. "There's a way to your agent." Harry opened his eyes. If anything, Ruth looked even more beautiful than before. "Malcolm."

Perhaps he'd known the answer all along. Harry needed her to say it. "You're right but-"

"-but you don't want to ask it of him. Neither do I after what happened but he's tired of retirement. Malcolm speaks the language. He can find his way into China without our help. It's perfect."

"I'm aware."

"You said it yourself, Harry. Simon's _dead_ – it won't be in vain." There it was – acceptance. It washed over Harry and was confirmed with a slight nod. "Well, now that's settled," she cleared her throat, "what am I to do with you for the remainder of the evening?"

"I have it on good authority that you are in possession of an enviable library of movies."

The idea was so mundane that it entertained Ruth greatly. She laughed, flopping down beside him. "And pray, from what source did this information originate?"

"That I cannot tell you. It is a secret."

"Yes, Malcolm's probably told you all of mine by now."

"He preferred your company to mine," Harry attempted to soften the blow but Ruth wasn't biting.

"The best thing you can do right now is _lie_."

* * *

Halfway through the movie, Ruth gave in. She placed a pillow on Harry's knee and laid over the worn out couch, stretching across it with him as an extension of the furniture. If there was an opportunity for Harry to protest he'd missed it a while ago. So there they stayed, black and white images flickering across the screen, an overly dramatic score filling the air and Harry's hand resting hesitantly on the curve above Ruth's hip. He had no idea what this was – if _this_ was anything at all. For his own sanity he decided not to analyse the situation further. Ruth did enough of that for the both of them.

It was only then, in his moment of perfect armistice, that Harry felt her shudder.

"Ruth..." he whispered. There was no reply – only another tremble under Harry's hand. Unadvisedly, he allowed his hand to slide across her cardigan, roaming until it paused at the flat of her stomach. She was half in his arms – an almost embrace.

"Are you thinking about it too?" Her voice wavered with sorrow.

"Or course I'm thinking about it." Harry replied, his gaze oddly fixed on the TV and its jarringly cheerful images.

Ruth turned over beneath his hold, lying on her back with her head on the cushion. She faced him, staring up with black rivers carved down the sides of her face. She was trying, he could tell, not to tumble into the growing pit of misery their lives created. "Don't go there, Ruth..." he begged. "Not tonight. Not yet." Another tear filled. Gorged. Fell with the others. "Please."

"I need you to go." She rolled out of his hold abruptly and stood, desperately wiping mascara from her face. Fussing with the buttons on her cardigan, she backed into the hallway. This is why, she reminded herself, it was better if she remained alone. The late hours were dangerous. Her steely disposition faded and the screaming visions of the lost clawed their way in. Better to finish a bottle of wine and collapse into bed, thoughtless. Ruth knew that was why Harry kept a decanter by his desk. They were the same. Haunted.

"Ruth..." he followed, standing with his arms half-reaching. She was retreating. _Blaming him_. He could see the shutters close over her glistening eyes. So she should. He wondered how many other deaths were laid at his door. Harry deserved every single one and more. That was the real price. In his darkest moments he imagined their ghosts standing as a ghoulish forest on the moor, white mist swirling at their feet. He walked between the lifeless figures, pale like bleached wood after a life in the sea. Drained of meaning. Wasted dreams. Stories left unspoken on his lips. "Let me make you a cup of -"

"Get out, Harry." Tears, thicker this time. The last thing she wanted was his sympathy. She deserved to be ruined. "I can't – I can't do this with you tonight. I can't be the 'Ruth' you need."

"I'm not looking for anything," Harry promised. "I'm just _here_ , Ruth. That's all."

For a moment she wavered. Her back met the cold stone of her hall. Nowhere left to run. He was coming for her, stepping through the shadows with patient eyes, as fierce here as they were on the grid. Ruth was framed between an inspirational quote and crocheted cottage house by the sea. The photos were what pushed her over – he'd known it as soon as they slipped from the folder. Black and white, fanned over the briefing room table. Simon. A lifeless boy surrounded by the demons he'd vanquished. A horrible, pulp novel for the mass market of MI5 and they'd bought into the lie.

"They believed it..." Ruth wiped her face again. "Green – young – gullible idiots."

"We needed them to..."

"That's not the point." How quickly the same thing happened to her. She remembered her life dismantling. One morning she was taking a bus and the next she was curled up on the bridge of a freezing boat, alone, sailing toward a horizon that kept getting further and further away. Simon followed an order from his superior and before the sun could make another pass he was face first in a tide of cheap liquor. It made her stomach turn. "I'm sorry I just – please go, Harry. I want you to go."

Harry hesitated, unwilling to leave her cowering against the wall, alone with the demons he created. He tried to say that – explain. Everything came out wrong and he found himself thrust onto the street. At once, Harry turned back to the door, hands against it – forehead as well. She was on the other side, sliding down into a crumpled pile. There they stayed, inches and miles apart.

"Ruth..." It was cold. He noticed for the first time. The wind caught the back of his neck, tugging at the shirt hair above his collar. _Death's fingertips._

"Harry..." Ruth whispered back. The monochromatic images from the movie flickered into the hall from the other room. She remained until he left and found that his absence felt worse than his presence. Too late now. Harry was gone.

* * *

 _'Ruby Ruby, this is Night Owl,'_ the MI6 operative leaning against the hideous Peugeot muttered into his sleeve. _'Romeo is leaving.'_

 _'Juliet?'_

 _'That's a negative on the nightcap. Romeo's out on his arse without a jacket. Cold. Even for an analyst. Following.'_

 _'Copy. We'll wait here. See if Juliet has a change of heart.'_

* * *

Ruth eventually picked herself up from her doormat and roamed into the living room where she was greeted by the black, lifeless screen of the TV. During the evening, the lamps had been switched off and without them the room was pitch. Blindly stumbling forward, Ruth reached for one of them, switching it on.

"Jesus – _Christ_ in a fucking whore house!" She almost tripped over her sofa in shock. "I'm calling Harry!"

The head of MI6 sat serenely opposite in one of her chairs, folded up like a spider with limbs all over the place. "Sadly Harry is unavailable," Siviter replied calmly, pointing to the rumpled pile of leather in the corner. "You have his phone."

"Shit..." Ruth snatched her wine and fell onto the couch. "I realise MI6 likes to show off its house-breaking skills but is this really the time?"

"Believe me, Evershed, I'd not be here if it weren't important. All things considered..."

"Yes, _all_ things considered." Murder of fellow agents included. "Don't presume I won't throw you out of my house."

"I wouldn't dare. If you'll evict Harry on a cold night like this I hold out no hope for myself." Siviter paused, taking a moment to survey her room. It was homely – not something that many of them managed. He'd been in a lot of MI5 houses, most of them were like Harry's – shells of an existence. Evershed was different. She made what she could out of what she had. "There's a loose end. Thought I might stop by and give it the snip."

Despite it all, Ruth found a laugh on her lips. It was half-mad, rang false and felt sick in the back of her throat. "Have you come to kill me too?"

Siviter was quick to deny. "I wouldn't dare – nor do I want to. Believe what you will of me, Ms Evershed but we're on the same side of this game. We all make shit decisions. We all do things that we hate for the good of our country."

Ruth observed him for a while. He was every so slightly vulnerable – wounded even, or nervous. She didn't have much experience of the man but he certainly lacked the smug bravado usually exhibited in his visits. _Oh. Ooooh._

"MI6 don't know..."

He shifted uncomfortably. "I'm – finding an alternate path around a problem."

"Otherwise known as Harry. Don't try and sweeten it, just tell me what you're doing here. I already feel nauseous and listening to you drivel on is making it worse."

"Those manners again. MI5 need to work on their -" Siviter was silenced by sharp slap. Ruth had wandered over, drawn in by his bullshit. "The facts."

Siviter touched his cheek. The skin warmed at once, blood racing to the impact sight. "Surrender the file." Ruth went pale. "Don't bother trying to lie. You're no good at it and I already know it's here."

"We burned it."

"Ruth..."

"We did we – we put it in the safe at Harry's office and incinerated the file."

"That's what you _should_ have done." Siviter could feel a nasty ache emerging in his forehead. He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows, forcing back the pain. "Put it this way, if you don't surrender the file, I'll have to look for it."

"Be my guest."


	7. ZOE

**SHINTUYA, PROVINCIA DE MANU**

 **MADRE DE DIOS, PERU**

Zoe was unprepared for the heat. It was suffocating, clogging her lungs as the air dragged through the back of her throat. Moisture gathered on burned skin, dropping onto the dirt. She lingered in the shade, boiling beneath a wrought iron roof with the dying buzz of a generator drowning out the screech of insects. She watched them, rising and falling in the air – a yellow mist.

It was six kilometres of hard road before the river spread out into a series of shallow tails. There was a crossing buried in the gravel, popular with archaeologists and beyond that, somewhere under the canopy, the famous _Pyramids of Paratoari_. Her cover was solid. Westerners in love with Peruvian ruins was an easy sell.

She leaned forward, resting on the polished trunk that formed the rail around the store. Zoe used that word loosely. As one of the only buildings in the tiny village, its offerings were limited to bottled water, fags, dried cocaine leaves and gin. She bought some of the latter and tipped the old woman heavily. Her withered arm lifted, pointing to a break in the jungle to the side. Zoe smiled, dipping her head in a nod.

Six months she'd had her eye on the trafficker. His drug mules spilled into the nearby cities, deviating from their modus operandus to dabble in petty street crime. Their mistake was roughing up an officer in _Cusco_ who was a friend of a friend of a friend of a politician. From there it was carnage. Winding up in the middle of the rainforest was seen as a 'personal favour'. Enough to buy Zoe a way into a better life with her husband and child. That's how it worked over here. Handshakes and money under the table. It wasn't so different to her old life.

Trouble was, Angel Blanco or _The White Angel_ as he was known, had up and vanished. She'd tracked him as far as _Pillcopata_ where he handed over _all_ of his profits in exchange for a briefcase that landed on a tiny private plane. After that, he wandered into the jungle and was never seen from again. That was a week ago. Zoe tracked the whispers, bribed her way through the dangerous passes all the way to this insignificant speck on the map. Now she was out of road and had only to follow Blanco into the wiles of the Peruvian rainforest.

" _Shit..."_ Zoe swore at an approaching crunch of tires. Nutters and criminals were the only ones this far out. Her bet was on trouble.

She was right.

A Landcruiser that had seen better centuries lurched to a stop outside the shop. Three men, brazenly carrying automatic weapons strapped to their backs, surveyed the store. Great swathes of sweat stains turned their khaki shirts black. The stink of it carried, pressed down with the heat.

Their eyes were on her immediately. Women. They stood out, especially if they were pale and tall like Zoe. She held her nerve, deciding to light up a fag and add its putrid smoke to the haze.

The old woman sold them everything but water. They argued over the price but she was tough, answering their taunts with curses. They shied away like children, accepting their loss. Two moved back to the truck but the third loitered in the shade, his eyes on Zoe. She could feel them. One she could take – even with the gun but three? Probably not without a lot of mess.

His first attempts at catching her attention were lewd, fragmented English slurs. She let him carry on for a while, hoping rather than believing that he'd get the urge out of his system and retire with his friends. When he didn't, Zoe looked up to find that he was leaning on the rail beside her, chewing on leaves. She imagined the bitter taste coating his rotten teeth. The foul stench permeated, assaulting the air. A stray cloud drifted over the sun. The sunlight dipped and for a moment the insects quieted.

 _'Sorry, I don't speak any English,'_ she replied, her Spanish almost perfect.

That at least left him wary. Chances were higher now that she was some drug lord's prized companion. Or worse, a daughter.

 _'Long way into the jungle for a woman,'_ he replied, spitting on the dirt at their feet.

 _'Perfect for business.'_

He leaned away from her, his suspicion deepening. Touching the wrong woman could result in a vicious blood bath and there were only three of them – not enough to fend off a war.

 _'Business. Sight-seeing. Good for tourism.'_

That was all he said before joining his revolting friends. Eventually they left in a storm of dust and the _doosh-doosh_ of a beaten-up radio. Zoe shared a smile with the shop keeper, who settled herself into a chair out the front and lit up, singing to herself.

Zoe collected a backpack from her Ute, checking in on her satellite phone. She parked it amongst the edge of the jungle and threw a tarpaulin over the rusted vehicle. As long as you weren't actively looking, it was hidden. Then she approached the break in the trees where someone less fortunate had ploughed through. It was fresh, the jungle not yet sealing its wound. Somewhere within was her _White Angel_. Dead or alive she had to know what was in his briefcase. Sixty million dollars was worth a look.

The mangled corpse of a Jeep decorated the short drop. There was a divide, where the river cut away the soft earth which the driver hadn't seen and gone barrelling over, rolling the vehicle several times before landing, tyres up. The river itself was dry except for the very last, festering pools dotted in the centre, brown with filth. A huge, green tree snake had wrapped itself around the axle, warming itself on the metal.

Zoe braced herself for the stench of death but it never came. The Jeep was empty, stripped of anything useful. The plates belonged to Blanco but there was no sign of him.

"Bloody hell..." she muttered, avoiding a stain of oil.

Stalking around the ruin she found a segment of the eroded bank torn apart where someone had scrambled up. A few céntimos littered the red earth. Zoe photographed the scene, twisted around and did the same for the car before vaulting up the rise of earth. Blanco's tracks were easy to pick out through the soft ground. He must have been injured or dazed. Every now and then the undergrowth was snapped where he'd fallen sideways into it, undone by the chunks of rock hidden in the leaf litter. It went on like this for several hundred metres until the jungle tightened its hold. The backpack wore away at her hips, scratching at blisters.

Despite the sun re-emerging from the scattered clouds, assaulting the foliage and raising the temperature to Dante levels, Zoe found herself in near darkness. Now the innocuous buzz of insects was a tangible nightmare. They came from everything and were everywhere, dropping onto her as she struggled over an engorged fig root system. She reached up, gripping the hair-like suckers tumbling from above – ignoring the webs and spiders within. A bird shrieked at the noise, vanishing in a fluster above.

God she missed the barren concrete wasteland. The murky waters of the Thames. Frosted nights dangling on the edge of snow. There were as many shades of grey hidden in London's streets as there were green in this mess. The ancient parts of her psyche kicked in – tensing with the knowledge that she'd sunk down the food chain. All of a sudden she was _prey_. Prey hunting prey. Zoe didn't like the way that settled. This was her life now. Prison or exile? It sounded like a choice from the Middle-ages bestowed on disobedient nobles. Surprise. Exile was real and despite all the chances in the world she'd fallen straight back into her old profession. _Let it go._ Will kept pleading with her. He'd have her work in a bar – or a shop. Maybe one of the hotels by the water. He thought she was on a manager training course. That wasn't her.

Once a spy, always a spy.

It was there, balanced on the wrinkled folds of the curtain fig, that she found the hut. Tiny, destitute – it was a survivor, held up by vines and an over zealous lemon tree, left to run wild. _What the hell was Blanco doing in hovel like this?_ It was useless as a hide – too close to the track to keep him hidden for long, too far away from anything of note for a business deal.

She didn't like the feel of it. Blanco blew all his cash on the contents of a briefcase and skulked off into the jungle. Even for a drug-trafficking crime lord, that was strange behaviour.

Zoe approached, withdrawing her pistol. The safety flicked off. It was weighted, loaded with a full cartridge. She had another pistol strapped to her leg and a shotgun in the Ute. They were easy to source. Peru was dripping with guns – and the dead they left behind.

She approached the shack from the side. The door was ajar – the inside black. She couldn't hear anything over the racket of the jungle. Tepidly, Zoe shifted, using a long branch to push open the old door. It creaked, squealing on its decayed hinges leaving the shack agape. Moving fast, Zoe faced the void, gun levelled at its depths.

Most of the inside was hidden by shadow but laid open in front of the door was the briefcase. A used syringe was discarded beside, along with the empty phial. _A new form of drug – is that what Blanco was into these days?_ What could be worth the money, though? There was nothing on the market that even approached the fee he'd forked out.

Whatever it was, she'd take it back. Her boss could decide what to do with it – after they paid. Blanco had cleared off. It was only as Zoe slipped her weapon safely into her belt and knelt down that she realised her mistake.

The shack wasn't empty.

Obscured by the darkness, a ragged figure swayed in the shadows. Zoe could see the whites of its eyes which had rolled back in a sort of madness. Aside from the torn hem of his distinctive white linen suit, Blanco was unrecognisable. His lips moved but no words came out. Hanging limp by his side, his hands shuddered. Sweat poured from his skin leaving him in a sodden, rank existence of which he seemed entirely unaware.

Whatever this new drug was, it had fucked Blanco up past the point of return. Slowly, without drawing his attention, Zoe placed the syringe and phial inside the case and closed the lid, clicking the locks into place. Picking it up with one hand, she drew her weapon again with the other. Her orders were to bring him in _alive_ so that he could endure the punishment laid out by the state. Maybe in this state he could be persuaded to come quietly. She doubted he even knew his own name.

"Blanco..." Zoe started, pausing in wait of some glimmer of recognition. "Blan-"

Blanco lurched forwards, shaken violently from his reverie into furious action. He came at her through the darkness, limbs flailing, mouth agape in a deathly, silent howl. Zoe swung the briefcase around, slamming it into the drug lord as he came upon her. The force knocked both of them off kilter. Zoe tumbled onto her arse and Blanco slammed into the side of the hut, making the building shake. Leaves rained around her. The smell of dead flesh was overpowering, originating from his swollen, gangrenous hands. His nose too, almost black in the centre of his face while open sores wept yellow liquid down his arm.

"Blanco stay back!" She shouted at him, stumbling to her feet. Zoe fumbled for her gun, pointing it at the man. He paid no notice. Felt nothing – saw nothing. "Don't make me shoot you."

The gun shot was strangled by the jungle. A red circle formed on the linen suit, dragged into a tear shape as the blood soaked through. There was a chink in the wooden shack behind where the bullet met its end. He didn't even flinch.

"Jesus Blanco..." Zoe whispered, backing away – briefcase in one hand, gun in the other. "What is this? What have you done, you idiot? New type of high got a little out of hand? Imagine if this shit hit the streets. We've been watching you for months. Where did you get it from, huh? Who flew all this way?" She rambled as Blanco grinned. There were holes where his teeth should have been and the silver glean of drool down the curve of his chin. He was beyond sick. Blanco was a dead man walking. "Dammit, Blanco, answer me!"

Blanco came for her again. Zoe held her ground and this time – shot him through the head. Blood painted the wooden cabin. The small hole above one of his eyes had exploded from the back of his head, cracking his skull apart leaving shards of hair and bone on the floor.

He didn't stop.

Zoe felt her stomach lurch with _fear_. It was unfamiliar and immediately joined by a rush of adrenaline. She turned, fleeing as one of Blanco's decayed hands came for her. Zoe pushed herself toward the wall of jungle rearing up in front. Approaching the fig, she tossed the suitcase over and followed, grasping the roots and using them as a ladder to scale the wood. She tumbled onto the litter beyond – grasping for the case before retracing her steps toward the car. He was following. She could hear Blanco crashing in the undergrowth.

A great web stuck to her face. There was a brush of legs against her neck. A surprised spider fumbled for purchase against her skin, caught in its own sticky strands. Zoe brushed it away with the barrel of her gun just before the ground fell away underneath her and she found herself rolling down into the dry river bed. A storm of earth followed, choking the air. The briefcase slipped from her hold, hitting her in shoulder before sliding ahead. She lunged for it then rolled out of the way as Blanco barrelled past. Zoe could smell him – a putrid mix of dust and death as he landed in one of the shallow pools.

Zoe forced herself up – climbing the rise with a fresh bruise marring her arm. The gun was gone, lost in the dirt. She emerged on the ridge and picked out his car, overturned in front with the snake curling tighter against the undercarriage.

Blanco grunted, thrashing against the dirt as he tried to scale the riverbank. It was like he was on Ice – barely human and driven by some madness. She'd seen the devastation that drug reigned on the city first hand. Parents eating their children, hacking limbs off and using them to paint deliriums slogans on the walls. Whatever this was it was worse. Much worse.

She took the track through the forest at a run, clutching the case under her arm to stop it swinging about and slowing her down. Blanco was behind – somewhere – out of sight around one of the twists in the path. _He should be dead._ If not from her bullets then from his own rotting flesh. He was surviving on some kind of artificial high.

The forest ended and Zoe found herself on the dirt track with the shop baking in the heat ahead.

" _Get inside! Get inside! Lock the door! Now! Now! Now!"_ Zoe shouted at the old woman. _Christ! She wasn't bloody moving!_ There was nothing Zoe could do. Blanco appeared at the edge of the jungle and immediately pursed. Zoe went for the car, dragging the tarpaulin off. Inside, she pulled the sun visor down, catching the tangle of keys. She flipped through them then thrust one of them into the car. She missed. Missed again.

 _Come on. Come on._ Zoe screeched at herself.

 _Slam!_

Blanco collided with her door. The car lurched, tipping on its wheels. His filthy arms came in the open window, clawing wildly. His wretched flesh touched her as Zoe backed out of her seat, shrieking when Blanco came at her like a wild dog. He'd almost crawled into the car as she fell out the other side, landing hard on the gravel. God those eyes. Those pit-less, eerie eyes. They were so far from human. She couldn't bear to look at them. He was in the car – dragging himself through to the other side, halfway there, falling out the passenger door where Zoe lay, sprawling on the ground transfixed by the horror of him.

Blood. Thick streams of it sprayed over the gravel and door of her car. It dripped, shedding from the metal in a sick curtain of red. Blanco's head fell before the rest of him, rolling over the ground. His corpse was left, lifelessly hanging out of her vehicle – twitching.

The old woman from the shop loomed above – machete in one hand, joint in the other. She uttered something that failed translation then wandered back to her place in the shade.

* * *

 **THAMES HOUSE, LONDON**

 **MI5 CENTRAL HQ**

"You look troubled."

"It's probably nothing." Ruth could feel Harry giving her _that look_ – the look that trusted her paranoia more than the quality of coffee from downstairs. There was a cup beside him which she'd watched him sniff and dismiss earlier. "Okay..." Ruth relented. "I was going back over that list of names from – from 'The File'," as they'd taken to calling it. "It's our, _'who's who'_ of knob heads with enough money to be interested in whatever 'he' might have created. If there is a product. There might not be. Who bloody knows."

"Ruth..."

"Three of them are missing."

A slight furrow of his brow. "You're only raising this now?"

"Well one missing name is to be expected, two is unsurprising considering they all dabble in the criminal market. Three – in such a short space of time at different corners of the globe? That perhaps warrants a closer look especially as another two of them haven't checked into their usual surveillance points. They could be missing as well."

"Who's that?"

"Ah..." Ruth passed over a photograph she caught him eyeing. "The White Angel – local legendary Peruvian drug lord. Made quite a name for himself in the nineties then had to calm down when the government launched a war on drug trafficking which killed his two brothers. Most of the squad turned criminal and the old cartels rose out of the shadows. This guy is under close watch after roughing up a VIP. He's our latest no show."

"Do we have anyone on him?"

"Locals have a tail that followed Angel Blanco to a remote, jungle region in Peru. I asked them to check in with me when there's news but they haven't heard from their operative for a few days."

"All right – follow it. Keep one of your beady eyes on that list. I want to know if there are any more no-shows."

"Course."

She was almost out of his office. "Ruth?"

"No, I didn't process that face-match on the Irish break and enter. It's in my pile – it will be done."

"That's – _not what I was going to ask you_." The last bit Harry said to an empty office. She'd been short with him, ever since last night. He'd come in early to find his leather jacket draped over the back of his chair. His phone, plugged in and charging and a handwritten, post-it note apology which he'd left stuck to his screen because it made him smile. They'd had their moments before, him and Ruth, but he'd hoped they'd do as they always did and carry on but there was something different about her today. Ruth was distracted and she wouldn't tell him why.


	8. BLUEWATER

**THAMES HOUSE, LONDON**

 **MI5 CENTRAL HQ**

Harry liked the roof. Sure it was a shit piece of architecture, ruined further by a bank of whining air conditioners and ominous pools of water congregated around the electrical boards but it had a view. A view Harry was quite attached to. The jungle of mismatched towers might be considered 'sullen' to some but Harry saw London for what it was – a survivor. _Londinium_. AD 43. If it was a good enough spot for the Romans then it was good enough for Harry Pearce. Its only major flaw was its propensity to periodically burn to the ground.

"See – told you, roof again. Predictable as daytime telly." Ruth muttered, appearing with Towers in tow. "I asked him to wait downstairs," she continued, this time to Harry. "He wouldn't listen to me either. You two have a lot more in common than you'd like to admit."

Harry Pearce abandoned his thoughts and turned around, allowing his eyebrows liberty to lift slightly at the sight of Towers puffing behind Ruth, his face red with sweat. Politicians. They'd never survive outside the strange construct of civilisation. Mind you, these days, Harry might find himself in the same boat. Oh to be young. He envied his team, out in the thick of it. Envied them even when they died in the name of a job they loved. More and more he was beginning to fear that he'd survive MI5 and vanish into obscurity. He feared _that_ more than anything.

"Don't kill yourself, William," Harry extended his hand. William took it and the two shook warmly. He wiped the sweat onto his suit pants discreetly. "There are enough people lined up to do that for you. Wouldn't want to disappoint the buggers."

"Very funny, Harry."

Harry certainly thought so, laughing heartily at his own joke. The other two observed him as though he were some odd, rare creature in captivity. "Thank you, Ruth," he added, nodding that she could leave. She was more than happy to oblige, ducking into the fire stairs.

When they were alone, Towers leaned heavily against the rail, gulping. At least it was clean at this altitude – the fresh cold air hit his inflamed face giving him a moment's respite. "Of all the places, what are you doing up here on your own?"

"Thinking. The Grid is not conducive to it."

"I tried to find the roof of my building once."

"And?"

"And security were of a mind to arrest me."

Harry laughed again, trying to imagine. "I heard they had a problem with your lot tumbling off the top onto the inviting pavement. Security thought they were doing you a favour." Joke as they might, it was a tough time for politicians. Without a clear enemy they lived in a minefield of civil unrest. More than a few had leaned over the ornate sandstone, considering the drop.

There was a long, drawn out silence between them. They weren't 'friends' in the traditional sense but as close as you could get to it in jobs like theirs. There was respect. Despite clashing heads over national security when push came to shove they both tried to do the right thing, whatever that was. You couldn't ask for anything more.

"I know why you like the roof," Towers added, dabbing the cold sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief. "No one's listening up here. Ironic – especially with those great eyesores." He was referring to the dozens of varying sized satellite dishes catching the wind. Towers sighed heavily. "Look Harry, I shouldn't have come but – I'm – I'm only telling you this in the hope that you'll... This is such a bad idea."

He couldn't even say it. God damn his conscience to hell! It wouldn't let him sleep. Towers had this feeling, deep in his gut, that if he didn't do something now he'd be left with a choice he couldn't live with. He'd be one of those pale ghosts, wandering the roof – spread over the concrete. To calm himself, Towers returned his eyes to the cityscape – to the rise and fall of civilisation which he held so dear. He had to remind himself why he was in this business – what he was protecting.

"You came all this way, William, it must be for a reason."

"I have and I did." He nodded firmly, steeling himself. "Last time I was here... I didn't come to you about Rasmussen because I remembered meeting him in university." The first admission fell away. "To tell you the truth Harry, I forgot all about the bugger. Distant history. I've lost most of my memories from those days including those relating to some obscure researcher I read a paper on once. It was Siviter that dug it up and asked me to pay you a visit."

"Asked or _told?_ "

"The second one. I didn't see the harm. That was before I knew, of course."

"MI6 used you to manipulate me and you agreed?"

"Like you haven't done the same to me _Christ_ knows how many times. Don't get sentimental. This is all smoke and mirrors. When MI6 asks you to do something you assume there's a damn good reason. I extend the same courtesy to you."

He had a point there. "Why tell me now?"

"I'm supposed to have another go at persuading you to drop the whole damn thing – come to you in confidence but I know you won't Harry. That's not your style. If there's any marrow left on the bone you'll be at it all night. Look at me all you want with those innocent eyes but you're sniffing around places you shouldn't, even now."

Well that was true, Harry had to admit. His track record of obeying orders from above wasn't as squeaky clean as it should be. He'd killed traitors against advice, tapped target's phone lines without permission and on balance, been vindicated for his choices.

It was as though Towers could read Harry's thoughts. "Siviter shouldn't have involved you. If he wasn't trying to distance himself from the whole thing and put Rasmussen in your car you'd never have noticed a missing Danish scientist. You care because it happened on your watch."

"We're long past the personal. What Rasmussen has or knows is dangerous."

"I'm going to tell you something and then I want you to drop the whole thing _for real_." Towers gripped the rail, needing the stability. "If MI6 find out I said this it'll be my body on Parliament lawn. I've got children..." Not that it mattered. His life wasn't worth more than anyone else's.

Harry wasn't sure he could give Towers that promise so he nodded instead.

"You don't need to look for Rasmussen because MI6 already has him. They've had him from the start."

"MI6 kidnapped their own mark from the dinner?"

"It was a hand-off dressed up as a kidnap. Rasmussen's been holed up in MI6 safe houses ever since."

"If that's true, why not just tell me? What's the point of letting us think Rasmussen is missing?"

Towers shifted closer. "Because it looked _good_. If MI5 were hunting around for a while, the rest of the circling vultures after Rasmussen believed he was gone. They've been filtering out of the country, following false leads abroad. MI6 need to keep everything quiet until interest dies off. You were the perfect cover, Harry. That's why Siviter gave him to you in the first place. He underestimated your paranoia."

Harry hadn't said anything but his hands were clenching into fists.

"I'm sorry," Towers added. "I know you lost a man over this. I don't want anyone else to die chasing lies. That's all I can tell you. That's all I know."

"I bloody hate you, William."

"No you don't, Harry..." Towers placed his hand on Harry's shoulder.

No, he didn't.

* * *

Hours later, Harry waved Ruth into his office. She paced around in front of his desk, not quite sure what she was doing there. He was mid way through a report, signing off the last few pages. He made her wait until he was done, nudging the paperwork to the edge of his desk, replacing the lid on his pen and then finally, settling his attention on Ruth.

"We're dropping it."

Ruth's famous, confused frown spread across her forehead. She gripped the files in her arms closer to her chest, trying to make out Harry's meaning but sometimes the man was a Rubik's cube. "Sorry – dropping what exactly?"

"Rasmussen."

Ruth's eyes were on him, dark and fierce, trying to determine if this was for real or another layer of lies. "Are you sure?"

"It's not a topic open to the floor, Ruth," he advised firmly.

"Right." She tried not to take his brisk tone personally. Towers, it had to be and if history was any merit to judge by, she'd be waiting a while to find out what was said. "And..." She wanted to say, _and Malcolm_ but didn't dare while they were on the grid.

"That too."

"Ruth..."

" _Yes_ ," Ruth snapped at him a bit more harshly than she'd meant. "I'll do it."

* * *

The files slammed onto the desk with so much force they knocked a reading book onto the floor. _Call for the Dead – John le Carre_. A gift from Harry on their one dinner together. Malcolm salvaged it from her desk during her sudden 'death' and when she returned to work it was there, waiting for her. That was the first time she'd cried since...

Ruth collapsed into her chair and stared mindlessly at the files. Sasha watched, not sure what to make of the display. A slight diversion of her gaze revealed Harry Pearce in a similarly odd mood, looming by the glass with his eyes on the grid. Sasha hated it when he did that. Brooded in view.

Fearing bloodshed, Sasha wandered over and knelt beside Ruth's desk to retrieve the book, brandishing the treasured item. "Think you might have dropped this..." she said, sliding it onto the desk.

Ruth wasn't exactly crying but there was a significant amount of emotion held at bay by professionalism. Sasha was about to give up on the woman when Ruth finally spoke.

"It's finished."

Sasha paused mid-retreat, not quite sure what Ruth meant. "What's finished?"

The irony didn't escape Ruth. It was a mirror to Harry's conversation earlier. Maybe this is how he really felt about the whole thing – why'd he'd been so short with her. Uttering the words felt bitter in her mouth. They made her snap at Sasha. "You know what."

A glimmer of recognition. "Did Harry say why?"

"It just is."

This wasn't the police force. Truth and justice occupied a lower rung to necessity. All Sasha could do was nod and obediently return to her desk. There was plenty to get on with – terrorists to follow, phones to tap, a few politicians to 'politely warn' about their extra-curricular activities... Why then was it the empty desk that bothered her so much? Simon wasn't a particular friend of hers but he was a colleague. One of _them_. In the Force you protected your own. Were Harry and Ruth honestly going to let his death go unanswered? _Of course they were. They're spooks._ She reminded herself. _So are you._

Joanne crumpled over her desk, head on its surface with her mobile held aloft in her hand long after the phone call ended. If ever they needed an emoticon for 'dire'...

"Something wrong?" Sasha asked, if only to lighten the mood.

"Sod off, plod."

Must be something nasty.

* * *

"Gabon." _Thunk._ "Imboko." _Thunk._ "The great Nyanga River." _Thunk._ "Oh the great continent of our ancestors – the gift that keeps giving." The sarcasm was stronger than the coffee.

The reports hit the briefing room desk with an odd finality, in line with Harry's words. He took his place at the head of the table, turning on the projector as Ruth dimmed the lights. A satellite picture of Imboko filled the void. Aside from the lazy curve of the Nyanga river, there was nothing there. A mangle of forest and a few mountains breaking through.

"Six months ago this tiny outpost – middle of nowhere – in a prosperous corner of the African continent played host to a party of engineers. Seemingly without cause eleven of OilTek's finest exchanged their hard hats for twitcher's binoculars and wandered off into the yonder for a vacation. _Hardly._ " Harry added, as if he needed to emphasise that this was suspicious.

"Co-coincidently one of Joanne's assets was already ensconced in the group. Code name Bluewater, Roberto has been Oiltek's ranks for more than a year investigating rather serious allegations of dangerous practice on board drilling stations, some of which operate inside British waters. It's pure luck that he was chosen as part of the possy for this venture.

"He revealed to us through scheduled updates that OilTek is surveying the area for a fresh oil reserve. Again no surprises. Gabon is one of the wealthiest nations on the continent almost solely built on the back of their murky, liquid gold. What is interesting is their lack of disclosure."

"It's not really our M.O. is it?" Ruth asked wearily. This meeting was a walk in by Harry and Joanne. She wasn't fond of blind briefs.

"Not particularly, no. It wouldn't even warrant a mention except for some reports filtering in from the region that are of concern."

The next image was taken on the banks of a river, presumably the Nyanga. Covered in mud, partially submerged, were dozens of bodies. Many of them children. Dead children.

"These came in via Bluewater's satellite phone. Not our best resolution but I think you all get the idea." Harry gave the room a chance to digest the terrible scene. Joanne in particular was not handling it well. Sasha watched her curiously. She'd always assumed the woman to be a cold hearted bitch but there were flickers of genuine despair tainting her face as she shied away from the bodies. No one really knew anyone else here. Simon was right. They were all shadows to each other and the world.

"There are several of them, more than two dozen bodies all up," Harry continued, flicking through the slides. "And then this."

The screen changed – this time to a poor quality video clearly taken on the same phone. It was their asset, Bluewater. He'd left the phone balanced against a rock while appeared on screen. He wore a muddied Oiltek shirt marred by dark stains where he'd fallen down the river bank. He was drenched and bruised with partially scabbed cuts across his forehead. Most of his injuries were a few days old. _Tired._ Sasha saw it in his eyes. Bluewater was a man at the end.

Bluewater trembled. "I wanted you to see," he panted with the effort of speaking. Distracted, his eyes darted around beyond the field of the camera. Somewhere nearby, they could hear the rush of the Nyanga river lifting bodies from the bank. "See so that you would understand what happened to us."

He took a few measured steps away and held up both his hands. They were starting to turn with gangrene. His flesh was dying. Joanne looked away.

"I can't tell you what it is," Bluewater admitted, "some kind of unlisted jungle disease. It set upon us, all at once during the night. A man – a rabid creature departed from his senses stormed through our settlement. He ripped our tents, assaulted several of the engineers before our security shot him. Emptied two magazines into the body before it fell. The villagers burned it."

He looked past the camera again. His eyes settled there, staring at the movement while he continued. "It was after that it started." The pain in his body was beyond bearing. He struggled to speak – to stand even. "Others died in the night – terrible coughing fits that turned to blood. Their eyes rolled back. Foamed at the mouth. Then they were dead. More and more until there were bodies laying on the ground outside the healer's hut. We were immediately quarantined but one of the engineers was already sick. He started talking to himself – crazed with some kind of hallucination. He thought we were camels in a desert caravan and kept giving us names." For a tiny moment Bluewater's lip curled in a smile. Even in desperation humans found amusement. Perhaps it was a way of surviving when all else was lost. "He didn't die first – that was the Austrian. Same as the others, he choked on his own blood."

"We must alert the WHO." Ruth asked, before she was hushed by Harry.

"There's more..." he murmured.

On the screen, Bluewater continued. "Those of us that survived the first night built bonfires in the morning. Everything was burned. One of our guys said that we should preserve something – a sample for study but he was outvoted. We destroyed everything but it wasn't enough. A different kind of sickness descended upon the rest of us." Bluewater paused, remembering what those first days were like.

"It was vivid – the most incredible set of visions you could imagine. We were immersed in drugged stupors, in awe of simple things. A branch. A cup. Anything. More died of dehydration, at least that's what it looked like when I came around to my senses. That fades – that part – it dies when the pain comes on."

He stepped closer to the camera, letting whoever was watching see his flesh. "Not enough blood flow. Our extremities are dying off. Irreversible now." A moment of lament. "That's not what you need to know. Before the end – before the last savage breath the victims turned violent. If it is a virus then it's desperate to spread. It takes control – makes men do what only nightmares dream." He was shaking his head. "I won't be that. If you get this if – if somehow you see this... Burn the whole god damn thing to the ground."

"That's – that's it, I guess." Bluewater rambled off as he bent down, picking an item out of the mud. He was only partially on screen. "Not everyone got sick but those who didn't were killed by the rest. Whatever this thing is, it's from the depths of hell. You have to stop it right here, in this village or you'll have another plague ravaging the Earth." He straightened up, holding an old pistol. "You know I studied medicine before engineering." Bluewater was crying as he spoke, slipping off the safety. "One-hundred million... Sixty percent of the world's population. That's about what the Black Death took. Could you imagine if that happened again?" His fingers fumbled with the weapon, his nerves broken. "What do six billion bodies look like? Can we even imagine death on that scale?" The pistol aligned with the side of his head. "I don't think we can."

Bluewater looked straight through the camera. Joanne was looking back, frozen. "Don't let it happen."

The gunshot startled the agents watching. Bluewater fell to the side leaving the strangely peaceful vista. Eventually the phone fell, landing in the mud. A shadow stepped over it. _Dragged itself over._ Crocodile.

Harry turned the video off.

They all needed a minute to process their thoughts. Ruth poured glasses of water to keep her hands busy. Anything to stop her from thinking about the body in the mud.

"Who else knows?" Asked Sasha, flicking through the report.

"Us," Harry replied. "Joanne received the message on her phone twenty minutes ago."The HPA are on their way over. Unfortunately it's 'tread carefully'. There's a US military bunker hidden in the jungle nearby. We're not supposed to know about it and neither is anyone else."

"But Harry..." Ruth interceded. "If this is Ebola mark two the whole area has to be quarantined. Immediately."

"Everyone is dead."

"Oiltek is going to come looking for its engineers... We can't risk any more people going down there."

"My early thoughts are an unfortunate oil fire. We need confirmation from our friends over at HPA that the fire will be sufficient to make the area safe. Ruth, I need you to look after our Oiltek friends. Sasha, help Joanne summarise Bluewater's file. That's a wrap everyone."

* * *

Ruth felt nauseous. She lingered by the water cooler, holding the cool plastic up against her cheek. Her mind replayed the moment of impact as Bluewater jarred with the steel. Alive. Dead. It was that simple. Simon's empty desk was directly behind her. One of the other staff members had cleared his personal effects into a box. Soon the chair would be filled by another face. Ruth tried not to see the employees of the grid as place-holders – temporary cards in a deck.

"Are you up to this?" Harry had come from nowhere, filling a glass of water even though he famously only took scotch.

"I'll be all right in a minute. I just need some air." She didn't even have the strength to push him away.

"You're welcome to pace over my roof," he offered, as if the building were his.

Ruth lifted her eyes. He looked like she felt. "As horrible as it is, I'm pleased at the sudden hive of chaos. It – lets me forget." She realised how terrible that sounded and immediately apologised. "God, what does that make me? Wishing ill just so that I can be busy? That's appalling. I sound like _you_."

Harry reached out, cautious of the staff around them. He rested his hand briefly on her arm – no more than he would have done for any of them except perhaps he lingered there longer. "It's perfectly natural. Don't waste time hating yourself over how you feel."

"Great advice, Harry..." Her tone bordered on mocking.

"That's what I'm here for – you know – my boundless advice."

He delivered it so dead that Ruth finally cracked and broke a smile. She pointed her cup of water at him accusingly. "Your brand of advice is about as useful as a fortune cookie."

"Malcolm loved those. Do you remember?"

She nodded. "Snapping them open on his desk while watching CCTV, searching for one with an acceptable fortune."

" _Love is for the lucky and the brave."_

"That's the one. He was so pleased." Ruth ducked her head toward the corridor and slid away, hinting for him to follow. It was quieter, less light and prying eyes. "Look Harry – about what I did... I'm sorry."

"It was only a matter of time before a woman threw me out onto the street." There it was, that twinkle in his eye that caught Ruth off guard. "I earned it. Next time I'll keep my jacket on, just in case."

"Presumptuous again!" A real smile. She hid it behind her cup of water. "Slow learner."

"Persistent," he corrected.

"Yes, that is the chief complaint among the other Section Chiefs. Those yours?" She nodded at the three men shuffling into the office.

"Ah yes, the HPA. Sullen lot. Your meeting is off site."


	9. OILTEK

_NOTE: Hi everyone! I took a brief break from writing to make a Ruth/Harry video. You can find it over at /watch?v=LVI_rQOSr20 Hopefully it is shippy enough to keep you all going :D_

 _-elly_

* * *

 **SHINTUYA, PROVINCIA DE MANU**

 **MADRE DE DIOS, PERU**

Zoe emptied the whole bottle of gin over Blanco's corpse then stepped away as the old woman threw her joint onto the sordid nightmare. It caught. Rushed. Pushed them back with a roar of heat. Despite the unbearable flames and putrid odour, Zoe refused to leave until the White Angel had transformed into a pile of ash.

Satisfied his ghost was laid to rest, she returned to the Ute. The briefcase was on the passenger seat. Zoe searched it for markings – anything to tell her where it came from but it was completely barren. She didn't open it – not after what the contents had done to Blanco. Drugs were out of control. People were so desperate to escape they'd take anything.

The drive back was long but in the silence Zoe found space to think. Eventually the jungle tracks gave way to mountains. Their rock became volcanic ash. Great swathes of desolation stretched out either side broken only by erupting peaks of basalt. Ice lay in the shadows and at the crest between the violence, the Pacific Ocean appeared. A thin rim of blue clinging to the world. Zoe stopped the Ute for a moment.

Twenty-three hours later she pulled into Pisco. Their hotel was on the water, where the river met the sea. Its shallow, silt-laden deluge turned the surface a paler shade of blue in comparison to the enormous sapphire expanse beyond.

"Honey – god, what did they do to you?" Will wandered in, carrying their six year old. She was in a similar state to her mother, covered in dirt from playing outside.

"Team building activities..." Zoe flashed a smile at them. "Taking a shower."

Zoe took the case upstairs where she showered and returned to the balcony, considering what to do. This went beyond the interests of her security handler in Santiago. Whatever Blanco paid for was highly dangerous – it needed to be analysed – assessed, brought to the attention of the correct authorities who would hopefully stop the producers. Who could she trust here? In an economy built on the drug trade and topped out with kidnapping she held little hope for justice. Jesus. Imagine if it hit the market or was used to wage a fear campaign... She had to live in this country too.

She'd throw the whole bloody lot on a bonfire if she thought it would do any good but Blanco bought it from someone which meant that there was more of it out there and it was being sold to unscrupulous people for large sums of money. They had to be stopped and she had no hope of doing it alone.

Zoe played with her phone, turning it over in her hands several times before she finally made the call.

* * *

 **THAMES HOUSE, LONDON**

 **MI5 CENTRAL HQ**

"Blimey! Flash from the dawn era." She put the caller on hold and waved Sasha over. Joanne's mascara was unnaturally thick around her eyes. After the briefing she'd vanished into the bathrooms and no one dared to follow her in. Since emerging she hadn't made eye contact with anyone, until now. "I've got an old call sign on the line – will only speak to Harry."

"Who?"

"That information is above my clearance. A woman. That's it."

"I'll get him. Transfer the call to Harry's office."

"You sure?" They both turned to the glass expanse. The HPA group, who outnumbered Harry, were giving him a real work over about the situation in Gabon and Ruth wasn't there to save him. He'd never been good with civilian forces but he had to play nice this time and it was testing his patience.

* * *

"For the love of god, come in!" Harry shouted to the knock at his door. He was desperate for any distraction and gladly waved Sasha through. By this stage he didn't care if it was a missing pet gerbil. That alone made his guests from the HPA stalk about his office angrily, txting madly on their phones about the absolute fucking nerve of MI5. Eventually those rantings would drip feed up to someone able to give Harry the bollocking he was trying ever so valiantly to evade.

"Harry – call for you. Urgent."

He nodded at Sasha. "Please, escort our guests to the briefing room. I'll be along in a minute."

They were even _less_ pleased about being herded away. He knew how they felt. Poor sods were only trying to do their jobs. _'We're not finished here!'_ One of them shouted, as Harry spun back to his desk and picked up the call. _'Disgrace!'_

"Harry Pearce."

 _'Still alive...'_

Harry froze at the voice. He'd know it anywhere and he never thought he'd hear it again. He had hoped, so fervently, that one of them would escape the inevitable and have a life. Zoe... A fine agent who was meant to be a memory ascribed to history. "You can't call this number."

 _'I have to,'_ Zoe insisted. _'I have something you need to see. We wouldn't be having this call if...'_

"All right... We'll contact you." Then he hung up the phone, cutting short anyone who might be listening. "I need you to do a trace on that call," Harry said, when Sasha returned. "Quietly."

* * *

"Shit!"

Ruth backed away from the P.O. Box. Empty. That could only mean Malcolm missed her drop and was already on his way to China. He'd be untraceable. He was always good at that. Inconspicuous – a better shadow than any of them. A terrifying field agent if ever he'd been so inclined. It was Harry that kept him behind a desk, frightened to lose his skill set _or friendship_ , Ruth thought quietly. Harry didn't have many friends. Neither did she.

Sending another message was pointless if Malcolm failed to reply to the first. Malcolm was gone and there was nothing that any of them could do but wait for him to make contact.

* * *

 **WHITECHAPEL, LONDON**

 **OILTEK HEAD OFFICE**

Ruth spent several minutes with her head tipped backwards, staring at the glistening exterior of Oiltek's building. She remembered it being built – all odd and fragmented, bits of broken steel fused to the glass. Inside was the same. It had vaulted ceilings, like a warehouse. Voices, footsteps and lifts pinging all echoed around above in a swarm of hollow noise.

A secretary was waiting for her in the foyer and took her directly to an equally vacuous boardroom where a panel of men in suits were settled around an oval table like snooker balls, identical except for the colour of their shirts.

"Gentlemen..." she started, mustering her courage.

"No." Was their brusque reply, after Ruth had finished.

She turned to the man who had spoken. "No to – what bit?"

"All of it," he replied, shifting in his seat. "Our engineers are missing. We'll send a plane immediately to ascertain what happened to them. They are our employees – our responsibility and forgive me, no business of MI6."

"Five..." Ruth corrected under her breath. Maybe they should start wearing badges. "I'm sorry, you don't appear to understand. Your men and, forgive me..." _God Ruth_ , she thought to herself. She was the worst choice imaginable to bear bad news. Sympathy and tact never came naturally. Even Harry was more skilled. "...your engineers have died. The area is closed, to everyone. No exceptions."

"Perhaps in the UK you could impose such a ridiculous condition on us but Ms Evershed, our engineers, dead or alive, are in Gabon. You have no power to stop us."

Ruth reached for one of the water glasses, taking a deep draw of the water. "You will not be permitted, by the UK or our partners in Gabon. It's a no-fly zone now. Completely closed."

"And with so little information, you expect us to forget about our colleagues? Their families? No explanation as to their supposed death? No body to bury... What kind of people are you to think we would agree to this?"

The man at the head of the table had not spoken yet. Now he did, straightening his tie first before leaning forward. Ruth watched him carefully. There was a weight in his eyes – a mixture of hope and fear she had seen on the grid too often of late.

"I am not leaving my son in some godforsaken place, regardless of what you, MI5, MI6 or the bloody Queen of Sheba says. Now get out."

Ruth obliged, leaving them to their grief. She rang Harry immediately as she navigated through Whitechapel's streets. "Harry, we've got a really big problem with our oil friends."

 _'I've got a problem too... Meet back at the grid and we can commiserate over bad choices.'_

Shortly after, Ruth sat on the couch in Harry's office, bent over with her head nearly resting on her knees. Harry's HPA cluster was still confined to the briefing room. They looked like lab rats, lingering near the glass or conglomerated around the small offering of food that MI5 had managed to source from downstairs.

"Who wants to go first?"

Ruth smirked, lifting her head. "Well I've got two so I guess we could alternate."

"So be it," Harry replied, eyeing but not touching his decanter of whiskey. If he started now he wouldn't be sober enough to have it out with the Prime Minister then he'd end up agreeing to something he'd later regret.

"That thing that you asked me to do..." Ruth paused, giving him enough hints with her eyebrows to make sure that he was following, "...I can't."

He pressed his lips together into an unimpressed thin line. "Right well... we'll discuss that further later." Meaning not where anyone might be listening. "My turn – the HPA won't let us torch the outbreak site."

That caught her by surprise.

"What? Why?"

"They don't want to destroy whatever this thing is until they have a chance to study it. I have just sat through two hours of ceaseless drivel about the importance of collecting and cataloguing samples which completely ignores reality."

"Reality?"

"Yes Ruth, _reality_. This isn't my first rodeo with infectious diseases, be they natural or man made. Whatever it is needs to be wiped from the face of the Earth as quickly as possible before it can do any more harm. Any disturbance of that site will lead to further outbreaks. All it takes is one careless idiot or greedy arsehole to sell a sample on the side and we could be staring down the barrel of Armageddon. Again."

"Jesus, Harry. What happened while I was away?"

"Trust me, it's better not to know." Harry sometimes wondered how many near-calamitous events other nations hid from the world and then he had to stop wondering or risk insanity. Ignorance might not be bliss but it was certainly preferable to paranoia.

She swallowed hard. "Well I don't entirely disagree with you. Can't we just _accidentally_ raze the place? You said there was a US military base nearby. Our 'special relationship' must extend to a bit of friendly bonfire lighting."

"I'm sure it would except we don't officially know about that base and therefore cannot ask them for assistance."

"Fine – a standard missile."

"On a friendly African nation?"

"With their permission?"

"Don't _ever_ go into politics, Ruth. You'll be three world wars down before lunch."

Ruth frowned, trying to take his insult with grace.

"The HPA and their partners at the WHO are the only organisations that can act in the region with impunity. We have to make them agree to our terms." He sighed and stared at them through the glass. "If only they hadn't forbidden a little old school blackmail."

"Harry..."

"Sorry. You said that you had two pieces of bad news for me?"

"Ah yes. Our friends at Oiltek are not going to play ball. They insist that it is their right to go and retrieve their dead."

"And their equipment."

"Don't be cruel – if I was in their position I would do the same. If you want to stop them from leaving – which I might add they seem inclined to do sooner rather than later – you are going to need to tell them what's really going on. I don't think they're unreasonable, just upset. One of the engineers was the son of a board member."

"Christ."

"Exactly. We have to come clean."

"All right – do it... But make sure you slide a copy of the Official Secrets act in there while you're at it. What happened in Gabon stays in Gabon, understand?"

"Sure. Was there something else?"

Harry was seriously considering if he was as transparent as he feared or if Ruth has special powers of deduction where he was concerned. It didn't matter what it was in his head, she was always the first to pick up on it. "I had a contact while you were out from an ex-agent."

"Someone I know?"

"Yes Ruth, someone you know. Someone we both thought was gone forever. Zoe."

Ruth covered her mouth with her hand in shock. "Is – is she all right?"

"I have no idea. After I deal with this crisis I have to arrange a secure meet."

"It must be something serious for her to breach protocol. Hell of a risk."

"That's what worries me."

* * *

"Did you do this?" One of the Oiltek men pointed his folder accusingly at Ruth, anguish written over him. They'd signed the forms and listened to the truth. It tempered their urge to jet across the world but for all the problems it solved, the truth raised a whole new set.

"Of course not," Ruth promised. "At the moment we believe it is a naturally occurring phenomenon that your team were unfortunate enough to stumble upon. There is no one working in that part of the region except for your team scouting oil."

"Who says we were scouting oil?"

"Apologies..." _Bloody hell._ "A logical assumption. Why you were there is unimportant. Whatever this thing was, it came out of the jungle and took out the village in less than a week. There were no survivors." Everyone was quiet, mostly with shock. "Do we have an agreement then?"

Eventually each board member nodded. Some of them held their heads in regret – guilt – or despair.

"What are you going to do, with the village?" It was the father of the missing engineer.

"Burn it if we can."

"If?"

"A slight disagreement with some other organisations involved in the clean up. Listen gentlemen, we're doing all we can to make sure that what happened to your team is contained – that they don't die in vain. I'm – _we're –_ very sorry for your loss."

"And us for yours..." The man replied. He was brought a slight air of satisfaction as he watched the spook shift uncomfortably in front of them. "We always knew about Roberto."

"I – have no idea what you mean."

"Of course not but he was a good and decent man. One of our better engineers too. That's why we let him stay. I hope, for his sake if not ours, you hold to your word."

* * *

Ruth stared down the contents of her glass, chin on her hands – hands on the bar. She'd been there for the better part of an hour and hadn't touched a drop.

"What are you drinking?" Harry's voice rolled in behind, claiming one of the empty seats next to Ruth. He needed only to nod at the bartender for his order. "Something hideously expensive and overcomplicated by the looks of it." He added, when she failed to reply.

"Are you attempting to describe me or my drink?"

"Both, I imagine..." Harry boldly replied, as his drink was slid toward him. He didn't show the same reserve with his beverage.

"If you're going to quote Jane Austen..."

"I did nothing of the-"

"You should be aware that the protagonist went through a lot of shit after that smart arse comment."

"And in the end?"

"Smug bastard."

"Would you have me any other way?"

"God... You're a walking plethora of dated cliches tonight."

"Thank you." Harry was prepared to accept that as a compliment. It was one of the nicest things that anyone had said to him all day. Mind you his bar was set quite low by the screaming HPA reps. Eventually they'd struck a deal. The sight would be incinerated _after_ a short period of remote study done by an on-site lab to mediate risk. MI5 could send an agent to observe. It wasn't ideal.

"How did you find me?"

Harry sighed with amusement. He was a bloody spook and she wasn't hard to find. "Really?"

"Malcolm's off-map, Harry. We won't hear from him again until he wants us to. I'm sorry. If I'd gone sooner we might have caught him."

"It'll be all right. As soon as he checks in we'll tell him that the mission is scrubbed."

"Do you really think that will work?" Ruth asked, sniffing the surface of her drink in preparation. "We can't order him to do anything."

"You don't think he'll come home..."

"No. I don't. I think Malcolm will make contact with this asset of yours and follow the trail of breadcrumbs to wherever they might lead. If he does that and anyone finds out – well... I'm guessing whoever told you to drop it won't be very happy with you. They'll never believe that it was beyond our control."

"Yes quite. We've worn out our, 'benefit of the doubt' card a very long time ago."

They settled into a comfortable silence for a while. Harry drinking is whiskey, Ruth not touching her alcoholic construction. "That is a fine way to drink..." he chided her, only moments from rolling his eyes.

Ruth played with the stem of the Martini glass. "The last time I had one of these was at a Hen's night. Suffice to say things took a turn for the worse as the evening wore on."

"I doubt very much that was solely the fault of the drink." Harry offered, although was unable to hide the smile on his lips at the thought of Ruth breaking loose on a wild night.

"What are you smiling about?"

"Nothing," he lied. "You – mostly."

"Oh god-"

"No..." he stopped her. "It's a good thing," Harry insisted. "There seems to be less and less to smile about these days."

"Oh well... I shall try and provide better entertainment," she added, finally sipping the green, ice liquid. Ruth immediately pulled a face.

"How was that?" Harry asked cautiously.

"Terrible! What was I thinking?"

* * *

"I'm catching the bus..." Ruth insisted, tucked into Harry's side as they ambled down the road together in the later hours of the evening.

He hadn't meant to let it happen but before he realised, Ruth was six strange looking drinks down and quickly taking that turn for the worse she'd warned him about. "You'll do nothing of the sort," he insisted, keeping a firm hold of her. It was going to rain. He could smell it in the air. That sweet – dusty scent that preceded the deluge.

Ruth stumbled – Harry kept her aloft. "Oh god, I'm sorry..." she slurred. "What must you think of me?"

"Only good things, I promise." He had to pause as Ruth pulled to a stop. Her head tilted back, leaning against Harry's shoulder. She was simply gazing up at him, eyes soft. "We're ah... catching a cab." He uttered, unable to think of anything while she was eyeing him like that. Then he felt one of her small hands slide into his coat, pressing against his chest.

"Are you coming with me?"

Harry didn't trust himself to answer that.


	10. NIGHT OWL

"Just – oh god..." Harry had never concentrated so hard in his life – attempting _half succeeding_ in balancing Ruth against the door frame while he fished for her keys. It was probably a sin, ratting through a woman's hand bag but he had little choice and Ruth was no help at all. When he found them, Harry was presented with an intimidating sculpture of coloured metal. He held it up to completely inadequate street lamp, squinting at the mess. "What in the name of sanity? How many doors do you have?"

Ruth didn't so much as _reply_ as reach toward the keys with a puzzled expression. Delicately, she separated some of them with her fingers then plucked out an unassuming silver strip of metal.

"Thank you." Harry tried that one in the lock and mercifully, the door opened. Now he needed only to coax Ruth into her house.

* * *

 _'Ruby Ruby, Night Owl here...'_ The MI6 operative lingered across the street, throwing alarmed glances at the gathering storm above. There was a wind kicking up, blowing dried leaves over the asphalt. _Fuckity-shit!_ It was going to pour. _'Looks like we could be here all night. Can someone do the coffee run?'_

 _'Negative on that, Night Owl. Bring your own at this hour.'_

 _'Cunts. All of you.'_

 _'Foxtrot objects to Night Owl's language.'_

 _'Copy that, Foxtrot. Ruby Ruby out.'_

* * *

In the end, Ruth managed on her own, arms outstretched, back to the wall as she slid over the threshold and into the house. Her head nudged some of the wall hangings, very nearly sending them to an unfortunate demise before Harry pried her off the surface.

"Come on..." Harry insisted, when Ruth stumbled. "Straight to bed with you."

"Scandalous!" Ruth went to whack him on the shoulder. Missed. Sent a lamp crashing to the floor in an almighty cataclysm.

It was the loudest sound Harry had ever heard. He wasn't sure what to do, staring at the shattered bulb and fresh carpet of glass, mortified that it was somehow his fault. Harry didn't have time to dwell.

"Shit – shoes..." Ruth was trying to take off her heels.

"Not here," he raced to stop her. "You'll cut yourself. Come on. Upstairs. Don't make me turn that into an order, Evershed."

Even though it was dark, Harry could feel the indignation in Ruth's lofted eyebrow. One, he'd called her, 'Evershed' and two... "Harry Pearce," she started, as he led her to the stairs, "I'm not sure that it's proper for you to pull rank in my house."

"Maybe not but the occasion calls for it."

By this stage, Harry was exhausted. Escorting Ruth safely home was far too much responsibility for the head of Section D. She required a royal escort. "All right..." They reached the top of the landing together, her arm around his neck leaning heavily. He was presented with a nightmare of multiple doors and no light. "Which way is it?"

"Are you trying to tell me," Ruth stalled, "that you haven't broken into my house at least once? Not even for a peek?"

"Contrary to water cooler gossip," he replied sternly, "I do not make a habit of home visits." _Yes, he had but there'd been no cause to sneak upstairs._ "This one?" No helpful reply. "I'm going to go ahead and guess."

Harry guessed correctly. The door opened to a modest room with its navy curtains pulled back with a silver tie, allowing the street light in. A soft, white glow illuminated a double bed, scatterings of tables and a chair housing the coat she'd been wearing yesterday. He could not help but smile at the simplicity of the room that was all so very Ruth.

"Here we go," he warned her, before his hold loosened and Ruth dropped gently to the bed. She seemed to have no inclination to sit – immediately unfurling herself over the covers.

Harry took her shoes off while she was distracted groping at the pillows. It would take a heart of ice not to find her perfectly gorgeous in her irrational rage directed at the stuffed items. He probably should have helped her with her earrings or done something about the jacket she was wearing but Harry wasn't game with Ruth's playful mood. Suffice to say, she didn't have the best boundaries, proved when she suddenly reached up, tangling her hand in his sleeve. She tugged him down to the bed with her until he was sat there in the soft light.

"Was there something else, Ruth?" Harry asked, patiently.

Ruth stared at him for a long time before finding an answer. "Why, in god's name, did you want to marry me?"

 _Panic_ immediately chased by sadness. Harry hoped that Ruth wasn't seriously blind to his reasons. He was aware, painfully so, that his timing lacked finesse but not his meaning. Never that. Was he _so_ guarded? Had the only person able to read him missed what should have been obvious?

"You _know_ why..." He whispered. This was not the time to be having this conversation – especially as he doubted Ruth would remember much of it. Her hand was on his forearm, playing with the material of his jacket.

"To help look after the cats, I imagine..." She replied dryly.

Ruth caught Harry so far off guard that he snorted with laughter, shaking slightly as he tried to stifle his amusement. "Yes, that must be it."

"Knew it..." Ruth declared.

A little entranced, Harry used his free hand to brush away her unruly fringe. Ruth blinked slowly at him, rather startled by his softness. _Harry Pearce is in your bedroom_ Ruth reminded herself. This wasn't one of her debauched fantasies, this was _him_. Real Harry. She could feel his warmth through the material of the jacket.

Ruth shifted slightly, snaring her hand in the thin black scarf laying over his coat. The accessory made him look rather dapper.

"Ruth-" Harry started to caution.

She ignored him, tugging him closer until Harry's free hand rested on the pillow beside her head. His warm breath against her lips. "It's just another secret, Harry..." Ruth murmured, surging to his lips.

Gods forgive him, Harry let her. His eyes closed at the last moment and then there was only Ruth. The slight burn of alcohol on her lips. Her tongue rolling across his. A gasp from nowhere. Another one of their secrets.

Harry pulled back as she faded away, succumbing to the liquor. He didn't mind. There was something peaceful in her face as her head turned to the side and she dragged the edge of another pillow toward her, surrounding herself with their softness. He stole a few moments, simply watching her breathe. _Would she ever say 'yes'?_ A man could only try.

* * *

 _Rain_ it did. Sheets of it. They hit Night Owl's windscreen with such force that he startled out of almost-sleep. _God_ this was the worst assignment he'd ever had bestowed on him. You'd think that following the head of MI5 would make for interesting viewer-ship but so far Pearce primarily shuffled between the office, a bar by the Thames and Evershed's house. There was definitely something going on with those two. Where there's smoke, there's fire and there was a shit load of smoke to go around.

Night Owl couldn't turn his windscreen wipers on without appearing conspicuous so he waited for the rain to cascade off in a second layer. His vision wasn't perfect but it was enough to watch for Pearce's figure if he found himself kicked to the curb again. Maybe not. They'd been in there an hour and there were no lights on. Old dog. Perhaps he'd finally scored.

* * *

Harry knelt on the ground in the spare bedroom. It was exactly as Ruth had described her hide. Obscured by a rug – which Harry folded back, one of the floorboards could be easily prised from the rest. Impossible to pick, he counted them – seventh from the door. Beneath was a hole, perfect for stashing the odd state secret.

Except that it was empty.

He rocked back onto the floor, sitting in defeat. Gone. How could Rasmussen's file be gone? Ruth would never give it away so either it had been lifted and she didn't know or – or it was stolen and she hadn't had the courage to face up to him.

"Oh Ruth..." He whispered. It was his fault, really. She'd told him to burn the whole bloody lot and he should have. His own selfish hoarding had led to this.

Harry replaced the board, folded the rug down and headed downstairs.

* * *

Wrong again. Harry Pearce _did_ emerge from Evershed's residence. Night Owl rubbed his face, trying to wake himself as he clicked his seatbelt on, ready to follow. _Wait_.

 _Knock. Knock._

Night Owl swore. Swore again then rolled down the window. Harry Pearce himself leaned through the rain into the car.

"Fancy offering me a ride?"

"I – _what_?"

Rain quickly found its way around Harry and hit Night Owl in the face. He shied away as a waterfall of it fell around him.

"You _are_ following me, correct?" Harry was met with affirmative silence. "So let's save each other the trouble." He didn't even wait for a 'yes' before switching to the other side of the car. Harry let himself in, ducking out of the rain – a lot of which he brought with him as his drenched clothes got all over the tasteless Peugeot. "My place, if you would."

Night Owl was in shock. "That..." he started to say, clearing his throat. "That's _not_ how surveillance works."

 _'Night Owl, what the hell are you doing? Is that Romeo in your car?'_

Harry heard the distinctive crackle of the MI6 officer's ear piece as the car pulled out, taking a right. It was quiet at this hour – no one about. He'd had Buckley's chance of catching a cab and he was rather congratulating himself on this moment of cunning. At the very least, bewildered MI6 operatives were always fun.

 _'Copy that.'_

Ruby Ruby's response was a muffled tirade.

"Great gig..." Harry said, after they'd been driving in torturous silence for a while.

"I think it's better that we don't talk. _Sir_." Night Owl added, realising that he was absolutely addressing a senior officer.

"You know what the trouble with your generation is?"

"Can't wait to hear."

"You haven't lived through a proper war. Oh, you've seen shadows of it – spectres creeping in from the edges but not blood raining from the sky. This is _peace_. This is cosy. You're so busy watching your friends that you've completely lost sight of the enemy. It's a serious mistake that's going to come back and bite a few chunks out of that pert arse very soon."

Night Owl pulled up to a red light. The street was empty. He turned to the director of MI5. "We're all fighting for the greater good."

He'd heard that recycled line more than once. "Poor idiot... You believe that." Harry took a really good look at the MI6 agent. He must have been, what – twenty-three, four? A kid. "A piece of advice. No matter who does the asking, think about what you've been told to do. Corruption has grown through this country like a weed. People in positions of trust abuse that power daily. Some of us are still fighting for the British people, perhaps in vain but we'll stand our grand to the last. This is my stop."

Night Owl watched the door for a long time after Pearce had closed it. _Why were they following him?_ No one had said. Night Owl hadn't noticed the omission and it bothered him now that he'd not even thought to ask.

 _'Ruby Ruby, Night Owl – check in.'_

 _'Rome's in the castle. Lights out.'_

 _'Juliet's in the tower. Lights out.'_

As easily as that, Harry Pearce had sewn a seed of dissent among the ranks of MI6.

Now that Harry knew where his tail was, he quickly ditched it, ducking out the back door of his house into the ally. Moments later, he was in another car with Sasha at the wheel, pulling out from the curb and into the night.

"Did you bring it?" Harry asked.

"In the back," Sasha replied.

Harry reached around for the sports bag, bringing it into the front with him. He unzipped it, checking the contents. Everything was there.

"You board in a few hours," she continued. "Everything is arranged for tomorrow. In and out, Harry. We can't cover this for long. Are you sure it has to be you? Surely one of us could-"

"No," he interrupted firmly. "It has to be me. One day you might be lucky enough to appreciate why. Remember, strictly off the books."

"I know. It's covered."

* * *

 **THAMES HOUSE, LONDON**

 **MI5 CENTRAL HQ**

Ruth couldn't stomach her coffee so she stared at it, projecting all her wayward thoughts into the Styrofoam.

"Got these for you," Sasha placed a glass of water and two pain killers on Ruth's desk.

"Thanks." She took them immediately and then clutched the glass like death. If she looked half as poorly as she felt, they'd throw her out. "Harry in yet?"

"Called in sick."

"What?" That was a first. If her brain hadn't been busy thrusting itself against her skull, Ruth might have been suspicious instead of sympathetic. "And the HPA lot?"

"Yours, I'm afraid."

"Oh god – no..."

"Harry left instructions." Sasha passed across a folder which Ruth took with great reluctance.

"That bastard! I just _knew_ I'd end up with them – and they'll hate me even more after dealing with Harry. I'm like the third transfer on a call centre where the customer's screaming for the manager and all they get is another intern. If he isn't already dead, I'm going to kill Harry. Not _comically_ but _actually_."

Sasha didn't doubt it. "Cheer up."

"Why?"

"Painkillers will kick in shortly."

It wasn't just the vile headache. Ruth had a pretty good recollection of events last night, up to and including her ridiculously overt flirting. A few drinks down and she turned into a textbook idiot. Part of her was glad Harry wasn't here. Hopefully by the time he recovered they could ignore the evening's transgressions and do what they did with all the other inconvenient truths between them – forget.

* * *

Night Owl catalogued every item in his car. Counted the stitches on the foe-leather seating. Indexed the ingredients in his packet soup by chemical name – then again by calorie. Tried all available radio stations within range including a very alarming discussion group monitoring the variable height of sheep compared to seasonal rainfall. _Love your country. Love your country._ He muttered to himself. Now he was officially out of things to occupy himself.

If he'd thought Pearce was dull to follow before, the man was a bloody drag now. Not a peep since last night. Sick, apparently. Night Owl could think of a lot of things he'd rather be doing with his time including solitary confinement in a padded cell.

 _'Foxtrot, come in. This is Night Owl.'_

A few minutes of static. Maybe they were asleep as well.

 _'Foxtrot went home hours ago. Status?'_

 _'Romeo's grounded.'_

 _'Copy that, stay with him.'_

Night Owl bashed his head against the window for something to do. Is this what moons felt like – latched to their parent planets?

Hours later, his relief agent took over. Yawning, Night Owl nodded at the battered Merc pulling in and then headed straight home. Debrief was tomorrow morning and he'd need all those hours to prepare himself for Siviter's demonic presence.

* * *

 **PISCO, PROVINCIA DE ICA**

 **PISCO, PERU**

Stark. That's all Harry could think as his small plane headed out over the water, making a slow turn above the swathe of ocean as it dropped altitude. Water gave way to sheets of desert crashing into the waves edged by unnatural swatches of farm land. Peeking out of the middle was Pisco.

It was a confused mix of Spanish imperialist grandeur latched onto mud ruins. He didn't know what it reminded him of except perhaps civilisation itself, wealth built on poverty, beauty on ruin. Harry lingered at a street corner as a boy on a bicycle rushed across in front, whipping up the edges of his coat. An old tree leaned over the road,riddled with dead limbs, showering it in tessellated shadows. It was beautiful in its own way. Flawed, gnarled but laced with character.

 _Rather like yourself,_ Harry thought with quiet amusement, _you're rather gnarled these days._

A small cafe sat opposite. Red and white chequered table cloths, a rusted iron fence with flowering vines trained around its sharp edges. Finally, a young woman with heavy glasses and a white hat drinking tea. _Of course._

Harry wore a pale linen suit and hat he'd picked up from a market during the walk. It didn't matter how he dressed, he always looked like, 'Harry'.

"I'll have one of those," he said, taking a seat opposite Zoe.

She turned, lifting a finger to a solitary waiter. "Are you alone?"

"I'm not even here," Harry replied, leaning back as his tea was poured.

"Of course not."

Steam lifted from the surface. "I was under the impression we left you in Chile."

Zoe managed a slight smile. "I'm on holiday. Will believes I work in hotel management but-"

"-but you're the agent the Chilean police have following drug traffickers around the jungle. Once I knew what I was looking for, you weren't that difficult to dig up. You're bloody lucky no one at home has much interest in South American problems otherwise you, my dear, are running the risk of extradition and jail."

"I'm old news," Zoe assured him. "Besides, it would mean admitting that the security services and parliament deliberately mislead the public over my fate. Very messy. You didn't fly all this way to parent me over my career choices."

"No, that's true." Harry sipped his tea, trying to remember the last time he'd slept.

Zoe reached under the table and extracted the silver briefcase. She placed it on the table beside him but grabbed his hand when Harry went to open it.

"I wouldn't do that," Zoe cautioned. She told of him of Blanco's fate, of the plane and the mysterious distributors who worked as shadows. "And so you see," she finished, relaxing into the rusted, iron chair, "I had no choice. This new drug, whatever it is, will destroy the streets. It's only a matter of time before it finds its way to London, like heroin, Crack and Ice. I figure – stop it here, in its infancy. What is it?"

Harry stared at the briefcase, his face folded in a frown. What she had described – it was so close to the nightmare of Gabon. This was a drug, Gabon a disease. Maybe it meant nothing but Harry was no friend to co-incidence. He went with his gut. "Describe the White Angel's fate again," he asked, hanging on her words. "You say there's a sample in that case?"

"There must be. The original needle and container are inside. Pulled it from Blanco's hovel myself. There'll be residue. What's that?" Zoe asked, as Harry gifted her a satchel bag.

"A precaution," he replied.

Her hands rested on the leather. They were disturbed by a salty breeze, picking its way through the town. "Danny?"

Harry looked into the depths of his empty teacup. "You know I can't."

"Please, Harry. Nothing specific. I only want to know if he's okay – if he's happy. Harry..."

Then he was gone, leaving her with the dust of the street and a cold pot of tea. Zoe opened the satchel and found passports, mobile, credit cards and a wad of cash. It was an exit bag.

"Right..." she said to herself, picking up her cup of tea.

She watched the empty place where Harry had faded into the crowd street. They'd meet again.

* * *

 **VAUXHALL HOUSE, LONDON**

 **MI6 CENTRAL HQ**

It was all business at MI6 headquarters. Sure, Vauxhall Cross looked impressive, looming over the water all glass and cream concrete but inside it was bland. Designed by a committee and executed by council workers, it lacked the character of Thames House. Most of the time, Night Owl felt like a civil servant in charge of photocopiers instead of a spy.

'Babylon' was an odd choice for a nickname. Granted it was a call back to the largest city in the ancient world (for a while) but things went south pretty spectacularly around 140BC. Considering how many times that pile of rubble had been conquered by foreign invaders, Night Owl wasn't sure it sent the right message.

No, if he had his way they'd make their base of operations in a seriously Gothic hovel with flying buttresses and nomadic bats nestled in the rafters. You know, scare the shit out of visitors.

"You're _late_..." Siviter stalked by, waving Night Owl into a briefing room.

"Actually -" he started to explain but the door slammed closed, ending that sentence for him. Siviter was tense, strutting around the other side of the table.

"Well – don't just meander there like a goldfish, _report_."

"Ah, not much to report, sir. Romeo's bunkered down all day. Not a peep since returning last night."

Siviter stared at the agent with cold, sharp eyes that could peel away flesh. "Harry Pearce. _The_ Harry Pearce is having a 'me' day during a time like this? We're edging into his second day of MIA. Are you sure he's in the house?"

Night Owl nodded. "Dropped him there myself. Pearce went in, Pearce didn't come out. Maybe he carked it."

Siviter seriously hoped not. That's the last thing needed right now. "You're _absolutely positive_?" Siviter barely moved. He was like a species of stick insect, carefully extending limbs toward his prey.

"On my life, sir." Siviter threw photos on the table between them. They fanned out, some falling off the surface entirely. It didn't matter. They were of Harry Pearce, strolling into Thames house this morning,bold as fucking brass. Night Owl's heart sank. "Impossible..."

"I'd advise you not to stake your life so easily," Siviter's tone darkened. "Or it'll lose value."

"I don't understand how-"

"Harry gave you blind morons the slip last night. I want to know _where_ he's been for the past twenty-four hours. Sneaky son of a bitch. It'll be nothing helpful, I can promise you that."

"I _swear_ he never left the house."

"Harry Pearce might be getting on in this world," Siviter began, leaving the photos on the table, "but make absolutely no mistake, he's better than you, more dangerous than me and smarter than the combined efforts of MI6, GCHQ and the SIS. He's got resources that aren't on anyone's books and silent operatives in every corner of the globe loyal to him specifically. Thank god his heart's in the right place or we'd be fucked."

Night Owl wasn't sure what to do so he stood there, glancing at the photographs.

"Well go on then!" Siviter ushered him out of the room irritably. "Go find out what the bugger is up to."


	11. PROFESSOR LONGREACH

"What do you mean, _'Harry was here'_?"

Ruth was distinctly cross, arms folded over her chest with one hand still gripping an empty Styrofoam cup so hard that her nails punctured the surface. It was a relic from her earlier meeting with the HPA which had gone... well it was _over_ and that's all she had to say about it.

Harry hadn't come in at all yesterday and now, for the second day in a row, his office was empty. He wasn't answering her calls. Or emails. Or txts. Ruth didn't like it. It felt unnatural to look across the Grid and face an empty panel of glass – like having a pet goldfish that suddenly up and vanished.

Not that Harry was a goldfish.

"He came in while you were with the HPA." Sasha shrugged in reply. She knew what Pearce was doing. He was using her as a buffer to Ruth's curiosity and for the most part, it worked. Sasha could see Ruth lingering on the verge of pushing for information and subsequently pulling herself back, biting her lip in annoyance.

"Well, where is he now?" Ruth snapped. "I've got about five bones to pick with him."

"Gone out, 'suppose."

"Sasha."

Her hands flew up innocently. "He didn't say anything to me. I promise."

Ruth tossed the cup out. "What _is_ Harry playing at?"

"Golf – for all I know. Look..." she quickly amended, when Ruth failed to see the comic edge of her quip, "I happened to see him early this morning in his office. He was there long enough to change his clothes and down a coffee. Then he headed out again and I haven't laid eyes on him since. I'm not his P.A. in fact, I don't think anyone would attempt to manage his schedule. He's a strong willed nightmare – like one of those tropical hurricanes that can't decide which island to terrorise."

"Cyclone..." Ruth couldn't fault Sasha's logic. "All right, _fine_ but he better come back soon. I had to make a deal with Oiltek that he's not going to like. He wasn't there to object so now he'll have to live with it." Ruth sighed heavily. That man wasn't happy unless he could classify himself as a 'mystery'. He was working under the misapprehension that it added to his charm.

In front of them, the pods wheezed into life.

"Oh shit...!" Ruth hissed, ducking down behind her desk. Her chair rolled a few feet away. "I'm _not_ here!" Ruth hissed in a frantic whisper.

Sasha watched in amusement as the HPA swarmed onto the grid, casting their irate eyes across the personnel.

"You can't stay down there all day," Sasha replied carefully, without giving away Ruth's position. Some of the other agents shot querying looks in Ruth's direction but had the sanity to keep their mouths shut. "Well, if you're going to be there for a while," she added, "can you sign these? Joanne's applications to escort your new best friends."

"It's not a good idea to let Joanne go to Gabon," Ruth signed the papers anyway, handing them back.

"She has to. There's something about seeing the body – the finality of it. It's a form of closure." Sasha knew the feeling well, staring at the corpse – searching for a friend only to find an empty hull. Knowing they weren't there any more was a form of comfort albeit a horrifying one.

"Guilt is driving her to do this," Ruth corrected, "and it'll double when she sees Roberto strewn over the muddy banks of the Nyanga. Never get involved with an asset, Sasha. Best case scenario – things ending badly. There's no point. For the life of me I can't work out why so many of us put ourselves through the horror. More than once, in most cases."

"My only meaningful relationship is with phone," she promised, before carefully adding. "Is that what happened to you? Did you get too close to an asset in the field? I see it in your eyes sometimes. You lost someone."

"You could call it that," Ruth pulled her knees up to her chest. That was the fine print of the service – it took everything you loved.

* * *

 **SOUTH BANK UNIVERSITY**

 **LONDON**

Harry Pearce easily passed for a college professor, wandering across the grounds of London's South Bank University toward the biological sciences building. Oddly dressed students meandered around him, headphones extruding from their ears like bits of string, strolling about with fourth-year apathy. The shine was gone, burdened by reality and Ramen. Even the passive attempt at a gardened area to his right shared their bleak outlook.

He found himself amazed that so many of his old friends had willingly chosen to spend their lives confined to institutions like this, walled in with the young. Amazed was wrong. Perplexed. Yes – it was a calling unfathomable to Harry. He'd always found the peril of boredom more frightening than untimely death. At least with Harry's option it was all over and done with. This... This was _torture_ that dragged on for decades.

Wedged underneath his arm was a large leather coat. Harry had it rolled over itself, concealing the briefcase Zoe had given him in Peru. His old friend the chauffeur wasn't far away. That was okay. This time Harry had phoned ahead to make sure that MI6 had their eyes in the right place. Where better to hide the most secret things than in plain sight?

Night Owl loitered in the park, half-hidden behind a book with his back pressed against a sad tree sporting an alarming lean. Pearce phoned one of the professors in the postgraduate department earlier wanting to discuss sub-tropical diseases. No doubt it was to do with the outbreak in Gabon that MI6 were following from a distance. A respectable one. They had no overwhelming urge to step in when the situation promised to be expensive and messy. It lacked the prestige of catching terrorists. It was one of those operations where success meant absolute silence and failure turned you into public enemy number one. No. Harry could have this one.

 _'Can you get closer?'_

 _'Negative on that, Ruby Ruby. Romeo's already made me. Any closer and he'll want to stop for a chat.'_

 _'This is a waste of time. Professor Longreach is a specialist in exotic diseases. Pearce is here for advice, hardly worthy of an escort.'_

 _'Pipe down, Ruby Ruby. Scarecrow says we have to be here – so we have to be here. Night Owl out.'_

 _'I'm getting a sandwich. Ruby Ruby going for a walk.'_

Siviter's real call sign was, 'The Fourth Horseman' but nobody used it in the field. 'Scarecrow' stuck, mostly because Siviter hated it with a fiery passion. It was one of the first thing recruits were taught. He once swore to extradite the person responsible. If only he knew that it was Harry Pearce himself.

* * *

Professor Longreach was a life-long academic. He'd barely pressed a foot into the dirt outside university lodgings except upon the odd occasion Harry coaxed him into the pub for a drink or ten. They met warmly in an open embrace, Harry all smiles and Longreach nudging his black-rimmed glasses up his nose. His silver hair waved down to his shoulders. Sixties era clothes smothered by a lab coat and finally, a walking cane with an elaborately hooked, silver top. Harry side-eyed it.

"That's a new addition," he noted.

"Got it last year," Longreach replied, deliberately tapping it on the ground. "I thought, 'to hell with it' and gave in to my arthritis. You know how it is. Years drag on. Bones grow weary. Nothing to be done against the march of time."

"Except turn it into a fashion accessory."

Harry tried not to think about it. Longreach was roughly the same age as him and yet appeared ancient in his eyes. _God, do I appear ancient to everyone else?_ Bloody hell he was going to have another drink when he returned to the office – preferably before Ruth started shouting at him. Which was inevitable.

"I hear you have something for me?" Longreach asked.

"I do indeed. Your office?"

"Certainly."

Longreach had a beautiful office. He'd sculpted the bland exterior with forceful applications of paint and excessive hanging of old maps. Holding centre stage behind his desk was an enormous scientific print of a mosquito with lace wings stretched out as though it were the angel of death.

"I never forget it, you know..." he caught Harry gazing at the print. The pair of them sat opposite each other, a slab of table between them. Beyond the open window sirens wailed, drowned out by the wind. A class finished resulting in a droll of students battering outside along the hall. "Six years working alongside Malaria and then something else showed up out of the blue, raged all manner of hell on us then vanished. I searched every specimen I had left and traipsed around that jungle for years. There was no trace of the monster. It was going to be my life's work. A new page in the history of virology but I missed my chance, Harry and the killer is still at large. Well and truly a cold case."

The nightmares were very much alive. He woke nearly every evening in a sweat-laden sheets with the taste of mud in his mouth.

"What if I said you might have another shot at the prize?" Harry left his coat and the concealed briefcase on the floor for the moment, handing Longreach a surmised file from Gabon instead. "Something nasty is rearing its head in Gabon."

Longreach seemed sceptical at first but flicking through the report dragged him closer to the desk until he had the filed laid over the polished wood and his frail figure awkwardly hunched in concentration. When he was finished, Longreach slipped off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I'm not sure what to say to that, Harry." He admitted.

"Say that you'll help."

"Help? No... Chasing death is a young man's sport. I've only to wait for it now. There must be a dozen organisations that you can take this to. I'm sure they'd all be champing at the bit for the publicity. They're only happy if there's a crisis. WHO is the worst. Don't give it to them. You know what it's like these days – media savagery, drooling at the whisper of cataclysm."

"The HPA are at a loss," Harry slid a photo on top of the file for Longreach. "One of my employees died to bring me this information. He seemed to think it was the end of the world."

And Harry was of a mind to believe him, if his presence was anything to go by. "I'm not entirely unmoved," Longreach insisted. "And it's not that I don't want to help you," he insisted, "but how do you propose I do it? I can't very well fly off to Africa for the weekend. I have my students to consider – and my hip."

"I know that," Harry assured him. "That's why I took the liberty of bringing you a gift – in the strictest confidence."

"That's never a good sign with you," Longreach muttered. "Your surprises end badly. Last time I got shot. The bugger was aiming at _you_."

"For which I am eternally grateful of your left thigh."

Longreach slipped his glasses back on as the silver briefcase was presented. He naturally went to open it but Harry stood up and placed his palm firmly on the cover.

"Not here," he whispered. "In a secure lab – all precautions." The he told him about the story of the White Angle of Peru and all the terror contained within. "If anyone asks, I came to you today about the situation in Gabon which, don't mistake me, I'd really appreciate any assistance you can render on those tragic events but this..." he nodded at the case. "This could be devastating. No one knows. Keep it that way at least until we have a picture of what we're dealing with."

"You know I will, Harry," Longreach promised. "Nothing like a bit of intrigue to keep you alive."

It wasn't loyalty that bought Longreach's silence. It was professional rapacity. If anyone was going to document a new killer in this century it was Longreach. Harry knew that you couldn't trust a man's pockets but their ego... That was easy.

* * *

Harry made sure to wear his leather jacket on the way out so that nothing looked amiss to his tails. _Tail_ , he corrected, when he noticed that one of the MI6 agents was missing. Only his old friend remained, prying himself off the grass to follow. It was a beautiful day so Harry led the young one on a tour of London, walking all the way back to Thames House.

Ruth spotted Harry the moment he entered the grid. She'd been staking out his office, waiting to pounce upon his return which was exactly what she did now. The woman didn't even need to say anything. She just stood there in front of him, back against the glass shell of his office, her eyes on his, unblinking.

"At least let me get settled." He pleaded, shuffling around her.

"Nearly two days!"

"Five minutes, Ruth. Then you can berate me until your teeth fall out."

Her eyes narrowed into aggressive slits as he made it into the safety of his office. When his five minutes was up, Ruth was straight back through that door, closing it behind her.

"In what order and from what direction am I being bollocked?"

"Every which way," she assured him.

Harry couldn't work out why this reminded him of marriage. "I am your captive audience."

"Three words; Hopeless Paranoid Arse-hats."

"That's not what it stands for-"

"-don't interrupt me when I'm yelling at you!"

Harry struggled to hide his internal amusement. Ruth was perfectly gorgeous in the throws of fury.

"Even when we offered them the kitchen sink they wanted to stand around and argue over the fittings. A whole day of nonsense and then Oiltek decided to tag in on the action."

"I thought they were all sorted?"

A moment of guilt flickered over Ruth's face. "Mostly."

" _Mostly_ isn't what I want to hear."

"There's no point arguing, Harry. You've been outranked and overruled. The HPA were more than happy to take their planes for such a small price."

"Ruth..."

"Oiltek is funding the HPA's expedition. They've agreed to take Joanne with them and all parties have signed the final declaration to destroy the evidence at the source after their investigation is complete."

Harry was unhappy. "What does that make us – travel agents? One day, those money-saving, pencil-pushers over at GCHQ are going to be our undoing."

"It's done. Flight time oh-eight-hundred tomorrow. Oiltek even threw in a few sweeteners for us so that there'd be no hard feelings. Details have been emailed through to you."

"That doesn't make it okay. We're being dictated to by an oil company and bunch of -"

"All right – all right..." Ruth held up her hand gently to hush him even though she had definitely started it. "The last thing that we want to do is make a fuss over this. Drawing attention to a deadly outbreak so soon after the whole Ebola debacle might attract some unhelpful interest. It's a great bloody big red flag for creative terrorists and there are plenty of those."

"Fine but make sure the Home Secretary knows that _I know_ he approved this mess in addition to all his other recent faux-pas. My unhappiness is starting to stack up. What? Is there something else?"

"Oh yes, I have an agenda," Ruth assured him. It took ten solid minutes of passive aggressive debriefing before she realised that her anger stemmed from worry rather than the litany of accusations left scattered around the room.

Harry sat there and let her ramble on, weathering her short-lived storm. As it faded, a smile settled on his face. He stood up without a word and wandered over to his decanter, pouring them both a drink. A small one.

"It's eleven o'clock in the morning..."

"And the HPA are coming back at one."

"Just this once, then Harry." Ruth took the glass from him. Clinked it softly against his and lifted it to her lips.

"What are you toasting?" He asked curiously.

"The end of the world," she replied.

"Is that on your agenda too, Ms Evershed?"

"Always." Ruth licked the liquor of her lips. "Item seven. Oh – I nearly forgot. A shit load of boxes arrived from the archives earlier. I had them stashed in the corner over there," she leaned around him, pointing at the tower of dusty, sagging objects in the corner. "You're up to something."

"It's only a hunch, Ruth," he promised. "If it graduates to something more serious, I promise you'll be the first to know."

"Right." She didn't believe that for a second. Ruth handed her empty glass back to Harry. "Those other instructions that you left for me which – thank you for that, by the way. That's just what I needed on a hangover."

"My pleasure."

He was such a smug shit sometimes. For the life of her, Ruth couldn't work out why she found it endearing. "Despite my duties I managed to do a bit of digging on those Peruvian drug traffickers of yours. Odd hobby you have. Nasty sorts. This Blanco in particular who went missing off our list was into a lot more than cocaine. Turns out the Americans have him on file as an arms dealer. Few stints in gaol – never more than a week thanks to friends in high places but..."

Ruth paused, ducking over to Harry's desk where she'd left the file for him. Harry's eyebrows shot up when she showed him the file.

"The Russian!"

"Yes, the missing Russian. He was Blanco's arms contact. The goods came from Russia smuggled in container ships directly to Peruvian ports."

"Why is it _always_ the bloody Russians, Ruth? Why..."

"To annoy you, Harry."

"Well they've succeeded. I'm annoyed. Was there any strange amounts of money changing hands between the two of them in the lead up to Blanco's death – outside their arms payments?"

Ruth flipped the page over for him and drew his attention to a line with a bank deposit. "Aye. Blanco's life savings straight over the pond. Either he bought a nuclear warhead or... Oh Harry... You _know_ what he bought. Oh my g-"

Harry lifted a finger to her lips, instructing her to hush. "Later. Work on the other names."

"All right Harry but you're going to come clean with me – sooner rather than later."

* * *

"Ruth?"

Ruth stopped in front of Sasha's desk. "Mmm?"

"Every thing is arranged for the summit tomorrow. The Chinese President had declined his invitation at the last minute. His son's funeral."

"Understandable. Rest of the players?"

"All snuggled up in their embassies."

"And I'm guessing we're not chaperoning any foreign nationals this time..."

"No indeed. I don't think MI6 wanted to tempt Harry after last time."

"I imagine not. Siviter is still licking his wounds after their last run in."

"With Joanne off to Africa I need to replace her on the team. We're rather short staffed at the moment and-"

"Why are you looking at me like – no – Sasha... I don't do 'field' activities unless I absolutely have to. Sasha. Harry signed off on it before you asked me, didn't he? Bloody hell! That man is insufferable. Now I'll have to go back in there and berate him some more."

Well, Sasha had to have some kind of payment for running all of Harry's errands and this was it. If life in the force had taught her anything it was how to barter.

"I don't have anything to wear..." Ruth muttered, as she wandered off.

Sasha grinned in triumph.

* * *

 **DANQINGHE NATIONAL FOREST PARK**

 **HEILONGJIANG PROVENCE, CHINA**

It was a beautiful day. Malcolm loved the rustle of the swaying pines above. They were sculptured things – thrustings of bark and umbrella shaped crowns. He leaned on his shovel, all thigh-high gumboots and silly hat. There was a wonderful freshness to the air, laced with the sporadic flurries of native flowers that had been encouraged to grow around odd rock formations.

This part of _Danqinghe_ was delicate. A place of reflection and serenity. If it weren't for the serious mission, Malcolm would consider taking up a permanent position as its gardener. Sadly, he rather thought the real gardener would eventually like his job back. Malcolm was only borrowing it for a little while. _'The specialist gardener from the UK.'_ A few hours spent meddling with credentials, a small pay off to a very nice man and half a day on google filtering through botany basics had just about done it. Now he was there about a sick willow.

Pride of place, its bowers tangled all the way to the lawn. The main log cabins were nestled under the forest canopy behind. Light filtered through the willow's leaves, glistening as though they were gold and therein lay the problem. It was supposed to be green but parts of it were taking a turn.

Malcolm reached into his pocket and pulled out the list of hastily written instructions from the real gardener. Of course his mission for Harry took priority but if he could help it, Malcolm was going to save the tree too.

Three days he'd been there, attending to the park with the other team of gardeners. This part belonged to the President and he'd spent a great deal of time taking care of it. With his son cold in the ground, the gardens had become very important to the man. Before the President left for London he'd come and sat on the bench in front of the willow, staring at it for hours. Malcolm had kept his distance but he could have sworn that he'd seen him speak to it. That was something that Malcolm understood. Even here, on an different continent, he found himself making little remarks that he used to make to Colin. Poor Colin.


	12. QUINN

**DANQINGHE NATIONAL FOREST PARK**

 **HEILONGJIANG PROVENCE, CHINA**

Aside from the stunning sprawl of gardens folded into the national park, there was a secret side to the President's complex in _Heilongjiang,_ one that lurked in plain sight. A scattering of civilisation huddled under the swaying pines – log cabins, park benches, the occasional shed and a few tea-huts with antique curved roofs overlooking serenity. A perfect lie.

Generators whirred quietly behind one of the cabins. They were pressed together, white boxes walled in between air conditioning units that leaked creating inhospitable, muddy patches devoid of life. It was difficult to find an excuse to get closer but a few weeks in, Malcolm noticed a patch of wild flowers sprouting under a window. He attended to them one morning. Running his fingertips over their delicate petals, Malcolm peered through the tinted glass where he was able to gauge the cabin's true purpose. A medical facility of some sort – or a lab. If Rasmussen had been trailing around after the President's boy odds were he'd ended up here.

Getting inside was more difficult. The park was not without its security, subtle though they remained, dressed as park rangers or members of the public. Malcolm picked them out easily. Twelve, on any given day. More during the hours the park was open for visitors.

Mixed in amongst all of it somewhere was Harry's agent. Malcolm eyed everyone with suspicion but so far he'd come up empty. It was only after the President had paid his respects and left for London that a new team of researchers arrived at the park, taking up residence in the lab. They kept mostly to themselves except for one that liked to wander through the grounds, hands in his pockets with the wind kicking out the lab coat for hours upon end.

One afternoon, while Malcolm was tending to the sick willow, the scientist crossed the open lawn and took a seat on the bench in front of the specimen tree. For the first time he was close enough for Malcolm to get a look at the man's face.

Harry's agent. There was no doubt.

Malcolm quickly turned away, digging his trowel into the dirt so as not to draw the attention of the security detail. _That bastard!_ Malcolm thought quietly, referring to Harry. _He could have said. Could have warned him._

Taking a bundle of clippings under his arm, Malcolm stood up and wandered over toward the bench under the guise of 'gardening'. Once there, he knelt fussing about with the clippings. The man on the bench had already made him but kept an ambivalent fascade, staring absently at the forest.

"You're a long way from home," said the scientist, once Malcolm was in earshot.

Malcolm kept his focus directed at the ground, muttering from the corner of his mouth. "I could bloody kill you."

"Not here."

"Where?"

"Tonight. There's a cabin at the end of the Great Pine trail, the one by the river. After nine."

Then the scientist was gone, wandering over the lawns before vanishing into the lab with the others. Malcolm continued gardening, whistling softly, as was his way. The security guards all thought he was a little mad and paid no attention as he ambled off into the forest when his shift ended. It was dark where the trees thickened around him. The gravel track turned into dirt beneath his shoes. Roots tangled, holding the earth together and off to the side, a river rushed over black rock. He was a thousand miles from home and yet the world felt familiar. It was the same air after all. The same ball of dirt.

He found the cabin unlocked and slipped inside. A tiny thing, it sported a few chairs, fireplace and startling view over a gap in the trees. The river was at its widest while the last glimmer of sunlight turned its surface gold. Malcolm made himself comfortable in one of the chairs and waited for the hours to slip by.

It was near ten when the door creaked open.

"God dammit Malcolm..." The agent said, closing the door swiftly. It groaned as the man leaned against it, staring at the gardener. "I knew Harry was sending someone but I never thought... You were the very last person I expected to see."

"Things are a bit complicated at home," Malcolm explained, indicating that the agent should sit, which he did, claiming the remaining chair. "There was no one else. The better question is, what are _you_ doing here?"

"Me?" The man fussed with the fabric of the chair, digging his nails into it. He smelled of disinfectant. Things were complicated for him too. More so than he was prepared to admit. "Harry asked me for a favour – a few years back. One thing led to another as it often does with Harry and here I am."

"I thought you worked for a private security firm?"

"I did. _Do._ Officially, that is. I thought you retired?"

"I did. _Have_. Officially." Both men managed a smile. "You know Harry, he has a knack for dragging people into the fray and, well if I'm honest, I was happy to help. Retirement is for other people. Are you going to tell me what's going on, Tom? Nobody else seems to have a bloody clue. We're all scratching around in the dark and if we're not careful, someone's going to lose an eye."

"That depends, Malcolm, if you tell me how you ended up as a gardener." Another smile. Tension subsided. It was as though they were back on the Grid, settling into their casual friendship. "I can tell you what I know."

Tom Quinn stared at Malcolm for a while. The other man looked older than he remembered – not so much in years but certainly in spirit, as if something inside him had been broken in the intervening years – snapped and fastened together with duct tape. He felt the same. He couldn't decide if it was the job or life in general, eating away at people until finally they died as a fragment of their formal selves.

"President Zhang Li and Harry go way back. The pair of them were at Oxford together, got into quite a bit of trouble until things took their natural course and Li returned to China. They kept in touch. Li moved into politics, Harry into MI5. Wars cut them up for a bit but recently, last ten years or so things have been good. He might not say it but all evidence points to friendship."

"Blimey..." Malcolm added quietly. Sometimes it felt like he barely knew the man. Born a spy; that was Pearce. "He never said the name."

"Doesn't surprise me. He only mentioned it to me to ask for a favour. When I left the service I really did become a security contractor – a bit of private work here and there. I married Christine and moved-"

"How is she?"

"D-died..." Tom stammered. "While ago now."

"I'm sorry." There was something tragic washing over his eyes so Malcolm chose not to press further. Tom elaborated anyway.

"She was ah hit by a car down Lancaster way. We'd moved there because she was – and then – so-"

"You don't have to say," Malcolm interrupted, nodding quietly.

"Well anyway," Tom swallowed the memory, "when Harry asked me for help I couldn't think of a reason not to. He told me that someone was trying to kill the President of China and that he was desperate. Zhang is a good man and a better president than the West had hoped for. Don't take that the wrong way. This has nothing to do with politics. I got the impression that Harry was doing this for his own reasons.

"Zhang couldn't trust anyone especially those on his security detail. He begged Harry for help – for protection, not only for himself but for his son too. The man was frightened that his job would be the death of his family. The easiest way to smuggle me in was as a British specialist to keep an eye on everything and weed out the members of his security force that posed a risk."

"I don't understand what all this is for – labs in the forest... Was the President up to something?"

Tom shook his head at Malcolm. "It's not what you think. The President lets foreign nations believe that he's up to something because the truth is much worse. His son, Wei, has been ill for years. He had an incurable genetic disorder that was slowly killing him in the most horrific way. Li tried everything in his power to save the boy. This place was a haven of sorts, private where he could receive treatment away from the press. It's very important over here to keep up appearances. A dying son is not a good political statement. Besides which, Li loved that boy."

Suddenly all the pieces fell into place for Malcolm. God they'd been wrong – they'd been _so wrong._ "Rasmussen..." Malcolm shifted forward on his seat. "He wasn't being paid by the President to make some special elixir of life."

"No."

"He was brought in to save Zhang Wei."

Tom nodded. "I was part of that team – a minder for the boy. The other scientists knew but none of the official guard. I sat with Rasmussen's team every day while Rasmussen treated Wei and the odd part is, it was working. Wei improved so much that he started making public appearances again. So long as he kept up his treatments, he was able to lead a normal life. I was getting closer to identifying the real threats inside Zhang's security. Everything was going to plan until that night. You probably heard some version of the story."

"The foiled kidnapping?"

Tom nodded. "That's the one. They had to release a tale to the press. There was broken glass all over the main hall and a few very frightened secretarial staff so they rustled up with a kidnapping story. They kept all the details the same except one. The target of the kidnapping. Rasmussen."

"They came for Rasmussen?"

"Yes – and they succeeded. Rasmussen was dragged from his bed into a car and no one has seen him since. Not for five months."

"No that's – that's not right," Malcolm shook his head, shifting forward in his seat. " _We_ saw him a month ago. He came to London to give a presentation. Very public. Harry drove him there before he was whisked away by someone – probably MI6 so unless there's more than one Rasmussen – oh, no. No you don't mean..."

"Father and son. Sadly the son, though an outstanding body double, is not privy to his father's research. Without Rasmussen's treatments, Wei's illness returned and he died in agony. The President, a genuine friend of Rasmussen, sent the man's son to London where he'd be safe. It's changed him. The President. He's not afraid any more. I think he's driven by vengeance. He wants to find Rasmussen and punish those that took him. Harry's helping..."

"What a mess..." Malcolm felt sick. "I have to ask, was Rasmussen doing anything else while he was here – aside from treating the President's son?"

"What do you mean?" Tom seemed genuinely surprised. "Other projects? I don't think so I mean, I don't know. I stayed with Wei so the only time I was in Rasmussen's presence was during the treatments and consultations."

"Well, did he have a private lab somewhere? Where did he live?"

"What's this about, Malcolm? I thought Harry sent you to find out what was going on with the President?"

"A lot has happened since you've been here," Malcolm started. "Rasmussen might have been devoted to Wei here but to the rest of the world he was creating a very dangerous treatment - they called it, 'The Fountain of Youth'. You do know... Don't you. Jesus Tom, we're going to have to be honest with each other."

"Of course I knew. Rasmussen's son looks older than him. That's not something you see every day. It's precisely that research that drew him to Li's attention in the first place."

Tom Quinn pushed himself out of the chair and started stalking around the room. If Malcolm had come this far for Harry, he might as well know the rest. "All right – Li gave Rasmussen the money to do whatever he wanted on his own time. He funded Rasmussen's private ambition for years when everyone thought he was mad. Li didn't care as long as his son was alive and well. The two of them had a deal. I never saw the President show the slightest bit of interest in Rasmussen's little side project."

"So, just to be clear," Malcolm stood as well and wandered over to the window. The pale sheets of cloth parading as curtains had been drawn over the darkness. Somewhere out there, the moon was loitering in the sky, cut apart by the Earth's shadow. "Rasmussen was kidnapped and is god knows where. His son – that no one else knows about, went to London where MI6 probably have him cooped up under interrogation. Which, by the way, they'll be furious about. Wei died of natural causes and the President of China is on some kind of a war path to those who kidnapped Rasmussen. At the same time we have a very valuable scientist with a hugely problematic invention at large under the command of what we can only assume are unscrupulous individuals which has sparked a nightmare betting pool."

"The people who kidnapped Rasmussen could not have done it without help. That person is still be here. I'm looking – trying to weed them out. If I can find out who was on the inside we have half a chance of finding out where they've taken him."

* * *

 **THAMES HOUSE, LONDON**

 **MI5 CENTRAL HQ**

Ruth was dressed for the occasion. In a few hours the curtains of madness would lift and the summit begin. As always, these things were launched with a cocktail party backed up with three full days of presentations. _Three_ because that's how long it took for everyone to survive their hangovers, trample their petty grievances, bury the bodies and finally sit down to _talk_. For everyone else, it was a security nightmare.

Sasha was already in the fray, running circles around the various security details while Ruth finished up at the office. She'd changed into a long skirt, off the shoulder top and a set of flashy earrings which she kept tilting her head to look at, worried they were too much for the occasion – or in general. Ruth eyed them in the bathroom mirror once more, frowning at herself. A heavy sigh followed which fogged the glass up. She took a step to the side and leaned in, reapplying her lipstick. The glittery chandeliers would have to stay.

"God, I hate this sort of thing..." she muttered, before returning to her desk.

The Grid was changing shifts, handing over the evening's duties to the floor below. Everyone in their section had gone home except for Harry who was padding around his office, shifting the boxes of files she'd left in the corner. Ruth lingered, watching him fuss about for a while. The rational part of Ruth understood that Harry owned a house but for some reason she imagined that he actually lived in his office. After all, he was always there. First to arrive. Last to leave. More than once she'd caught him napping on the couch with his jacket pulled to his chin as a blanket. Sometimes she wondered why he avoided home. It's not like he had a wife to throw him out – or avoid, just a pair of mewing cats.

Before she realised what she'd done, Ruth found herself knocking on Harry's door, resting her hand against the cool surface before opening it and stepping inside. She grinned fondly at the mess he'd managed to get himself into.

"Bringing chaos to the order?" She teased.

"You're in a good mood..." Harry started to say but trailed off when he turned around and got a look at her. He sort of _malfunctioned_ , staring open mouthed. He logged the line of her neck, jewelled earrings and subtle rise of her chest against her top before he recovered. "All set for the summit?"

Ruth nodded, causing the bright light to shatter in the diamond fragments. "I'd like it noted that I am still cross with you for signing me up to this. You know my opinion on soirees."

"Well, we're square now," Harry assured her. "You forced me into a dinner not so long ago. Look how that turned out..." National security mayhem. Hopefully Ruth would do better than him.

Ruth playfully narrowed her eyes. "In fairness, I was passing on a message from the Foreign Secretary because you wouldn't answer your phone. Level your revenge in his direction next time." What a numpty. "Anyway, I'll see if I can eavesdrop a few things for you while I'm there. Any preferences?"

Harry set the last box down and wandered over to her. He stopped, barely a foot between them. She really _did_ look beautiful – breathtakingly so in his eyes. He wished that she'd asked him to accompany her but as she hadn't mentioned anything and – well in fairness it wasn't really that king of a thing, Harry had made other plans to keep himself occupied for the night.

"You look lovely," he settled on, causing a blush to stir beneath her fresh layer of foundation. A spy to the core, Harry spotted it anyway.

"Goodness – been on the scotch already?" Ruth brushed him off lightly, averting her eyes because he was staring at her with an unusual amount of intensity. She wondered if he even knew that he was doing it. Piercing her with those unguarded eyes. Probably. All records indicated that he was an accomplished womaniser. The perfect 'honey trap' back in the day.

"Not a drop," he replied.

"Well," Ruth fumbled for her words, "if I'm going to stand next to Sasha all night, I thought I better make an effort. All the other agents are young, Harry – I don't even know what I'm doing there."

"Showing them how it's done, I imagine," he assured her.

Ruth was suddenly _very_ aware of the closed door. Harry had her backed into it. No way to leave except by stepping forward towards him. "Well – I should really – be going..." Ruth said, taking a half-step in his direction. He didn't move. Ruth felt his hand come up, gripping her arm gently. Her name was whispered and she managed to scrape her eyes from the floor. "Harry..."

Harry kissed her softly on the cheek – nothing more. Ruth leaned against him, overwhelmed for a moment by his sudden warmth and lingering scent. He was halfway across the office before Ruth realised he had moved. She fathomed that she must look rather odd, pressed against the door.

"Right well... I best – be off."

Harry picked up one of the boxes and turned around, leaning against the desk. He had a little smug grin on his face, the arse.

"Yes well," Ruth continued, repeating herself as she ran a hand through her hair, opening the door. "Goodnight Harry."

"Stay out of trouble."

"Me – trouble? Honestly..." she muttered, closing the door behind her. If anyone was trouble it was that sod burrowing through files.

* * *

"Blimey..."

Ruth stood at the front of the building. Security cars stretched left and right, far as she could see. Flower boxes had been brought in to bring a bit of colour to the otherwise dreary stone exterior. They'd even laid a red carpet over the concrete steps, lined it with gold ropes and staggered some of the Americans along with their earpieces and buzz cuts.

"I thought I must have made a mistake," Ruth continued, when Sasha sidled up to her, "and turned up to the Oscars."

"I know, right..." Sasha was dressed in a pant suit, low heels but her youth made up for her plain style. "Harry let you out then? Wasn't sure you were going to make it."

"Oh no, that wasn't his fault. Is that – oh god, I knew he'd be here but I thought he might have the decency to lurk about in the shadows where he belongs."

"Siviter doesn't lurk. Besides, this is Christmas to him. From what I hear he loves nothing more than swanning about, nudging shoulders with dignitaries. I think he wants to be one."

"And where have you been hanging around to hear things like that? I agree with you though." Siviter was in an expensive suit, bow-tie and white dress scarf. The sight of him made her sick. "Well, let's not allow him to spoil the otherwise lovely night. Shall we?"

The pair of them climbed the steps and walked in together, braving the rush of people ahead. It was a swarm of security risks all absently sharing drinks and milling about, protected by a smartly dressed army of agents from a dozen different nations who had, more often than not, at some point in their careers tried to beat the shit out of each other. It was like an awkward family reunion with all the crazy uncles, illegitimate children and marital problems that go with it.

"We're running the show," Sasha said, taking a glass of champagne. She had no intention of drinking – it was more an accessory. "Americans have taken up a whole floor in the hotel above and secured it. The rest are nesting up at their embassies. Ones to watch are the Canadians."

"The Canadians..." Ruth lofted eyebrow curiously. "They're never any trouble."

"Their Prime Minister, over there – red tie... Had a rather public divorce – drank the whole way over on the plane and has started up. Don't be alarmed if he's whisked away early."

"Right. If it's going to be one of _those_ sorts of nights, I might find a drink too."

Hours later, Ruth found herself hanging out by the window, bored of the charade. Politics never seemed more false than at events like this. She kept thinking about Simon. That poor boy splattered over his apartment. At least he knew nothing of it. The guilt stuck in the back of Ruth's throat. It should have been her, Harry or even Malcolm. That she could live with more easily.

"Pining away the night, I see."

"Siviter..." Ruth drawled, turning to find him strutting over. His genuine enjoyment soured her further.

"I knew MI5 were sending some of their people around but I didn't imagine for one moment that they'd send their best."

Ruth honestly couldn't tell if he was taking the piss or attempting a ham-fisted gesture of peace. She played it level. "Any chance to dress up. You know how it is."

"Sure. Sure. How's Harry?"

"Fine." _Oh, he means..._ "Yeah, no it was nothing. Back at work now." _Trust him to come fishing for information._ "Good evening..."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the Russian ambassador. Another human being that Ruth would rather see the back of. His name was in Rasmussen's file. 'Ambassador' was his day job, by night he was into some rather serious shit including but not limited to the arms trade. Siviter must know that. It was probably the chief reason he swarmed around him like a mosquito, hoping for drops of information. Ply the dignitaries with a bit of bubbly and hope they give up something juicy.

"You okay?" Sasha wandered over, hours later. She'd watched Ruth nurse an empty glass, eyes exclusively locked on Siviter. She sensed a storm brewing.

"That man," Ruth growled, using her glass to point. "Is the reason our Simon is going cold in the ground. I know he did it. I just – I can't prove it."

"Ruth..." Sasha implored her. "We don't know what really happened or why. Not yet anyway."

Ruth missed the tone in Sasha's reply. "I think I'm going to go over there and give him a piece of my mind."

"Oh don't..." Sasha reached forward, taking Ruth's arm gently. "I really – it's not a good idea. Not here."

"I'm not going to make a scene." Ruth tugged her arm free. "A chat. That's all." A pause. Ruth handed her glass to the stunned Sasha. "Won't be a mo'."

"Jesus..." Sasha uttered under her breath, as Ruth wove through the crowd. She should have stuck with her gut instinct and made Harry come along.

Siviter, now deep in a lovely old chat with the Home Secretary, was reaching toward a fresh glass of champagne when Ruth stormed in and beat him to it, swiping it off the waiter's tray. She brandished the flute toward Siviter, liquid sloshing over the brim and onto her hand.

"Evening Ruth," William offered, sensing tension crackling in the air. Ruth was more frightening than Harry when she got on the scent of something. Like a starving blood hound.

"William." She replied, then to Siviter, "I think we need to have a chat."

"We – just had a chat?" Siviter was a little bit stunned by the shine in her eye.

"No – a proper chat." Ruth sipped the champagne. "A chat about _Simon_."

Siviter and William exchanged looks of concern. "Here? _Now?_ "

"Yes – to both."

"I'm going to go rescue the Prime Minister. He looks lonely..." The Home Secretary excused himself, nodding at Siviter in a sort of _good luck_ kind of a way. Siviter merely widened his eyes in response.

"Right." Siviter took Ruth by the arm despite her protests and left the main hall with her. They crossed the hotel foyer and vanished into one of the reserved rooms. He closed the door quietly, letting his weight rest against it for a moment before he faced Ruth. "I know I'm not your favourite person in the world but this is not the place."

"Why did you have to kill him?" Ruth demanded. "He was a boy, Siviter. A boy serving his country."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Ruth, we're on the same bloody side here."

"Are we? _Are we._ Then why does it feel like-" Ruth paused, her vision blurring. The single lamp beside them came in and out of focus. All the sound was stripped from the room. As if walking through a tunnel, the walls were closing in. Darkness from the edges.

"Ruth?" Siviter watched the woman sway a little. The champagne glass slipped from her hand and fell to the carpet. "Jesus, Ruth?" A moment later she was falling forwards into his arms and the two of them crumpled to the floor. "Ruth – look at me. Ruth!"

Siviter looked to the champagne glass that had been meant for him. Frantically he lunged over, righting it to save the last few drops. Poisoned. Panic and training took over. Siviter rolled Ruth over and tilted her head, desperately trying to catch her attention before she slipped away but she was fading in front of him.

"Don't you _dare_ , Ruth!" Siviter insisted, as her eyes rolled back and closed. He was on the radio at once, calling for assistance. She was unconscious, splayed lifeless on the hotel carpet. "Bloody hell. Harry's going to kill me if something happens to you."

He shrugged out of his jacket, rolled it up and slipped it under her head. She was breathing, just but he could feel her pulse weaken with every scratch of air.


	13. ANDY

**POLES OF THE WORLD SUMMIT**

 **LONDON**

There was something about the waiter's manner that Sasha didn't fancy. He was different to the others, forsaking eager hands, dodging guests until he'd made his way through the thrall of politicians to Siviter and the Home Secretary with a predatory determination. He'd scrambled off as soon as Ruth intervened. There was a moment when he'd moved to stop her, dipping the tray slightly out of her reach but Ruth fished the glass from him and launched herself at Siviter.

Sasha chose to follow the waiter as he exited the party and crossed the hotel lobby, stripping parts of his uniform as he went before finally snatching a hoody off the coat rack. Out in the open, he chose the darkest street, away from the dying lamps. Definitely suspicious. She called it into the grid then picked up her pace, following him parallel to the main road. The man never ventured a single glance over his shoulder, focused instead on his escape. Forced to jog to keep pace, Sasha broke into a run when he ducked into a narrow side street by a patch of withered park land.

Upon rounding the corner, an arm reached out from the darkness. It caught the back of her jacket. Dragged her into a wall. The brick scraped a layer of skin off her forehead above the eye. She lifted her hands and pushed off the surface, forcing herself backwards. Her attacker faltered, unprepared for the sudden weight. Together they crashed to the concrete, rolling over and over in a storm of cigarette butts and newspaper.

"Stop. Stop!" Sasha fumbled, trying to disable him.

She momentarily forced him onto his back, pinning one of his hands against his spine. He squeaked in pain but the slimy bastard wriggled free, slapping her across the face. Once out, he threw her off and landed another blow. She kicked. He growled and fell away. A knife glinted. Instinct latched Sasha's hand to his, holding the blade inches from her neck. She could feel the cold edge of steel and count the serrations on the three inch blade.

It was the first time she managed a proper look at his face. European – somewhere in the Eastern states with a pair of wild looking eyes. They shone white in the faint hints of light borrowed from the adjacent street.

He was driven to escape. The longer Sasha held him, the more furious that will became, bucking and jostling. Sweat made their hands slip apart. The knife went in, catching her shoulder. It stuck there with its black handle protruding from her flesh. Sasha looked at it numbly. There was no pain. It would follow, of that she was sure.

The waiter used her moment of shock to roll away and lean heavily on the wall while he scrambled to his feet. Sasha's gun had fallen loose and lay on the pavement between them.

Both their eyes fell to it.

 _Don't._ Sasha thought. _Don't be an idiot._

Except he did. The man knelt and took the gun, turning it over in his hands where he flipped the safety off. He pointed it toward her stomach just as the pain in her shoulder took hold. Sasha lifted her hands, imploring him.

"Wait..."

He was going to pull the trigger. His manner was cold and professional. She was now a complication. For a moment she envied Simon. There was no warning for him. One moment he was alive, the next he wasn't. She found herself staring down the end and felt it oddly hollow. Sasha wasn't afraid of death. _Disappointed_. Yes, that was it. Disappointed that it was going to end in such a dreary fashion.

Well, if she was going to die it wasn't going to be looking into this jackass' eyes. Sasha closed hers, using the darkness to conjure images of her family. Even those were sabotaged. It was always the same face which floated to the forefront of her mind, blocking out the others.

Always _him_.

She didn't believe in ghosts but he was determined to haunt her thoughts – a spectre of her own making reminding her of a promise.

"I'm sorry..." she whispered to the face. And she was. So very sorry. The guilt stuck in her throat. There was nothing she could do about those days, they were dust. She had hoped, ever so much, that her work in the service might make amends but it seemed that too was drawing to a close. Inevitable failure was not half as glamorous as a Hollywood ending.

The gunshot rang out through the street.

Sasha startled, waiting for pain or silence, whichever came first. It was only when she heard the thud of a man's body hit the pavement that Sasha dared open her eyes. The waiter lay beside. Blood spilled through a small hole in his hoody. With a horrible groan, he started to choke. At the top of the street, a passing officer had drawn his firearm and taken the shot to save her life. He now stood motionless, gun raised, arm quivering in shock at what he'd done.

Sasha rolled the waiter onto his back and pressed down on the wound. The pain momentarily brought him to life.

"Who do you work for?" She demanded, shaking him to keep his attention. "Who?"

Before he could say, blood crept down side of his mouth and he fell limp under her hands. There was no point reviving him. The man was done.

"Dammit..." She hissed.

Sasha sat beside the body, kicking the ground in frustration. It was only now that she remembered the blade lodged in her shoulder. It made itself known with a fresh wave of pain.

"Bloody hell..." she reached up, touching the hilt. As her fingers brushed the handle, the blade shifted and she felt like fainting. It was no crime to admit that she lacked the courage to tear it free. "Hey – yeah, you!" Sasha waved the officer over.

* * *

For one single, blinding moment of horror, Siviter watched the staggered rise and fall of Ruth's chest still. His hands hovered above her shoulders, trembling as he took in the vision of her pale figure against the hotel carpet. A great number of people had died beneath him. He was damned if Ruth considered joining that list. It wasn't just his blinding fear of Harry. The world was a safer place with Ruth in it. Hell, if she didn't hate him so absolutely he'd consider poaching her.

"Not a _chance_..." His hissed, placing his hands over her heart. Siviter pressed down sharply, demanding her heart into action.

No one was more surprised than Ruth to find Siviter bearing down, begging her into the world of the living. For his trouble, she landed a firm slap across his cheek, knocking him clear off to the side. He raised his hand in surprise, touching the burning skin on his face marred by a Ruth-sized paw print.

"Right... You're okay then." Siviter knelt beside her.

Pale, coughing but otherwise breathing, Ruth tried to sit. Siviter would have none of that, pushing her back down onto his folded jacket.

"You – stay down there. Nearly bloody died."

"Too stubborn to die," Ruth assured him, right before a monstrous headache spread across her skull. She groaned afresh and turned away, profanity stifled by retching.

Thank-fucking-god, Siviter thought quietly. He risked edging closer, checking for any signs she might worsen but there was colour in her cheeks and murder in her eyes – both of which were a welcome sight as far as Siviter was concerned. Harry liked his women with spirit.

"I – don't understand – what happened?" She struggled through fresh fits of coughing. Her lungs were on fire, as though she'd drowned in half the _Bering sea._

"You, rather rudely, availed yourself of my drink," he replied, nodding at the glass of champagne. "I'm supposed to be the one on the floor in this scenario."

"Shame." Ruth propped herself up on one elbow. There were sirens outside the window. She eyed the glass and its flashing chorus of red and blue with a concerned frown. "How long is the list of people that want you dead?"

"How long is a piece of string?"

"Great. Well, that narrows it down."

Then they were flooded by ambulance workers who fluttered about Ruth in a panic. Siviter used his silk pocket scarf to carefully pick up the glass, logging it as evidence.

* * *

"Jesus – that you, Sasha?" The police officer slid his hat off as he knelt down in front of the injured woman. "Oh my god, it is! The bloody hell is wrong with you?" He hadn't recognised her all made up. The Sasha he was used to slummed around in jeans and whatever T-shirt she'd stolen from a previous boyfriend.

"Still cursing up a storm," Sasha replied. Her arm hung loosely at her side as the pain thickened. She felt quite nauseous. Might have been the oysters. Could be the curtain of blood running down her arm. "Have you called it in?"

"'course I called it in and who the hell is this guy?"

"No idea," Sasha replied, at the body on the street between them. The was a puddle of blood congealing beneath like a black tide. "Honestly. Not a clue."

"Seriously you have no idea who was trying to kill you... Or who I shot on your behalf?"

"None."

"Even if you did, you wouldn't say." There was a cutting edge of resentment in his tone.

"No – we're not doing this now. We're-"

"Ever since you became a spy. Same old story, Sasha." Pent up frustration spilled helplessly from Andy's lips. "You said you did it to find out the truth but since then we've heard nothing. You just – up and vanished, you did. Bloody useless. If you wanted to leave you should have come right out and said. None of us would have blamed you after what happened. This, whatever it is, is worse. It's like we never existed! We're _ghosts_ to you."

"Come on Andy... I've snapped a heel and there's a knife in my shoulder. Anyway, it doesn't work like that."

"This crazy 'spy thing' is a reaction to what happened that night." Andy added darkly. "You can't go on like this. You're not one of _them._ You're one of _us._ Look at this mess..." He gestured at the body on the pavement. "You're not this person, Sasha. I know who you are and you're a bloody fine detective not some shadow of the state. Or is it worse than that? Have you forgotten him entirely..."

Sasha glared at Andy. "How dare you!" she hissed. "I'll never forget him. He was _my_ partner. I found him or did you forget? Andy! Did you-" Sasha groaned and reached for her shoulder. She felt faint as a fresh river of blood ran down her front. Too much. Any more and she was in danger of blacking out altogether. He must have thought the same thing because his tone softened.

"All right, all right – shut your trap before you pass out," Andy relinquished his position and sat on the freezing concrete, letting Sasha lay against him while he called the ambulance again. He could hear sirens in the night, more than one set rushing through the streets. "Knife to the shoulder, I think you win that round."

"No," Sasha winced, shaking her head. "You were knifed in the arm a few years back. Technically you're ahead."

"Oh yes, that high maintenance teen fancied himself a sodding gangster."

"That's the one. Is it meant to hurt this much?"

"Ay."

"Well, for the record, if it comes down to it, I'd rather be _shot._ "

"Dually noted, boss."

* * *

Harry looked awkwardly between the forests of boxes he'd managed to create in his room. The contents of one lay over his desk, blanketing it two inches deep. Evidence wasn't going to be his problem – _volume_ was. He felt like the gringo-cops in the seventies with rooms full of damning evidence against the cocaine traffickers and no hope of keeping it long enough to prove anything. What he needed was Ruth and about seven trained monkeys to alphabetise it.

Instead, his phone rang.

 _'This Harry Pearce?'_

"Speaking."

 _'I've just put one of your officers in the back of an ambulance. She instructed me to call you for 'dinner and drinks'. Whatever that's code for, I've been left here with the body of a man she's gone and topped.'_

"Wait where you are."

After finishing with the idiot on the phone, Harry stormed out onto the Grid and plucked a few unwilling agents from their cushy desks as backup. He called around a car and then sped into the night. The man turned out to be a police officer – a face and a name that had crossed Harry's desk once or twice during Sasha's vetting. Though that was concerning, it certainly wasn't Harry's most pressing issue.

"You – know my name..." Andy staggered back, alarmed, as Harry Pearce strutted around the body with his trench coat grazing the pavement. The two of them had never met but this man addressed him as one might reference an ex-goldfish – something that used to circle past the glass every now and then without forming any serious attachment.

Harry knelt, running his hands through the dead man's clothes, riffling his pockets. He came up empty. He wasn't carrying so much as a bus ticket. "Pack it up," he muttered to his team. Harry eventually remembered that Andy was waiting patiently. "What happened to my agent?"

"Took a knife to the shoulder – don't worry, she's fine. Tough bird that one but you lot already know that."

"Right well..." Harry slid off his gloves, pushing them into his pocket before dragging out his phone. It had been buzzing angrily for some time. "We can take it from here." When he turned to leave, Harry felt a hand curl around his arm, holding him back. Calmly, Harry looked from the hand to the face of its owner. It was clear that a sudden leap of courage had wafted over Andy's mind. "Was there something else I can do for you?"

Andy nodded first while he searched for his voice. "Yeah... I reckon there is." Then, a long pause. "Do you know who did it?" Andy didn't mean this, here – he meant the brutal slaughter of his brother – Sasha's partner in the force. When they'd started to edge close to answers they hit a glass ceiling of classified reports and blacked out files. Sasha only joined the service to uncover the truth. "A-and you're covering it up – 'cause if you know who did it, tell me. Just – nod or somethin'."

"I have no idea what you mean. Now please, I must go." When Harry's back was turned, he heard the policeman continue his accusations. The details of the profile were coming back to him. _Grief. Depression. Short tempered. PTSD from the sudden, brutal murder of his brother._

"Yeah – that's exactly what she says. We just want to know. That's all. I _need_ to know. Hey – _hey_!" Like a ghost, Harry Pearce sank into the streets leaving the blaring lights of the ambulance in his wake.

When he was out of sight, Harry checked his phone. Twelve missed calls, all from Siviter and no messages. He rolled his eyes and hit re-dial.

"I'm popular tonight..." Harry started, when he heard Siviter pick up.

Siviter's tone was flat and unusually free of sarcasm. "Harry... It's _Ruth_."

* * *

"How long have you been camped over there?" Ruth asked, stirring from sleep.

She'd been whisked in and out of tests for hours until the doctors were satisfied. Now she was in a private room with a view of the city. Night was firmly upon them so she was surprised to see the mythical Harry occupying an awkward chair at the corner of her room. He had three empty Styrofoam cups beside him so the answer was _a while_.

A moment later he was on his feet, crossing the room where he gently perched on the edge of her bed. Ruth wasn't sure if she should be touched or alarmed by his concern. If Harry was here then things must have been serious. Come to think of it, she was missing some significant portions of the evening from her memory...

"You slipped back into unconsciousness on the way to the hospital," he started gently. "Things were _close_ for a while. You even panicked Siviter."

"If I'm remembering correctly, I think I might have hit him as well."

Harry managed a smile. "Indeed, I do believe that he mentioned something of the sort."

Despite his protests, Ruth shifted up in the bed so that she was sitting. Her body was numbed by painkillers but all her limbs were present and moving around and for the moment, that was good enough for her. "It was stupid," she finally settled on. "I should have let that arse have his drink."

"He'd be dead if you had. Whether you meant to or not, Ruth – you saved his life. Siviter has a heart condition."

"I really didn't mean to do that..." she replied grimly, then dipped her head with a timid grin. Harry mimicked her.

"Try to look on the bright side," he offered, "the man owes you a favour. That could be useful."

"Mmm... if I ever want to vanish abroad. Might take him up on that one day."

It was Harry that reached forward, gently brushing the back of her hand with his fingertips until she turned hers over, allowing him to hold it properly. He gave it a gentle squeeze, trying though probably failing to express how worried he'd been, anxiously waiting for hours in the hall with nurses trying to shush him away.

"I'll wait and take you home," he finally said, lifting his gaze to her again.

"You'll do nothing of the sort, Harry..." Ruth replied firmly. "You're far too busy to linger here. I'll take a cab."

"Absolutely not!"

"Harry... Honestly – I'm fine, well I will be fine."

"If I'll leave you here, you'll catch a sodding bus!" Harry protested, tilting his head with fond frustration. The woman was her own brand of nightmare that he honestly adored, even if she was infuriating.

"It's only across the street."

" _That_ is why I'm taking you home." She couldn't be trusted to look after herself.

"Harry – _no._ "

* * *

Six hours later, Ruth sat beside Harry in the car, driving through the early London morning towards her house.

"Have we heard anything yet?"

"Nothing," Harry replied. "The party continued untouched and everything is on track for the talks scheduled today. Security has been increased but not visibly. Don't want to spook any of the foreign diplomats. There's no news on the waiter who brought you the drink. He's a nameless body – probably a professional hire."

"And Sasha?"

"She's fine. Her pride is wounded more than anything else. You know what she's like – hates being bettered in the field."

"That reminds me of someone..." Ruth teased, fiddling with the leather upholstery in his car. She was trying not to think about the last time they'd been in her home together. Removing the boundaries of work from their lives was a dangerous idea. Whenever they did things got complicated.

 _The man wants to marry you_ , she reminded herself. Ruth glanced over at Harry. _Don't get any ideas._ She forced her attention back to the car. Then it dawned on her...

"This isn't your car."

"No," Harry replied. "Ah – it's Siviter's."

Ruth instantly frowned and turned to Harry. "How the hell did that happen?"

"Long story."

"Well," Ruth leaned against the window. "You've got a while."

* * *

"Tea is what you need..."

A moment later she heard him bumbling about in her kitchen. "Not everything can be solved with tea," she pointed out, lingering in the lounge room. She placed the plastic bag with her earrings and necklace from the hospital onto the table and bent down, eyeing herself in the mirror. _Jesus!_ She looked a bloody fright.

Ruth reached up, running her hands through tangled knots. The result was a slightly worse hairstyle than before. There was nothing for it – Harry had seen her in poorer condition. Leaving the mirror, she wandered over to the window. The morning light was pale, merging between grey and orange – undecided.

"There must be some universal law to which we are not privy," Harry announced, entering with two cups of tea.

"Sorry?"

"Forbidding either of us from attending formal dinners without some kind of security mayhem eventuating."

"I wonder what happens if we both attend one at the same time..." She managed a soft smile, relieving him of one of the cups before they picked out separate arm chairs. "I wasn't the target, Harry. Siviter was. Aside from the usual suspects, is there anyone that particularly wants him dead?"

"Well, I have my theories."

"It better not have been you, Harry." They shared a laugh that was mostly muffled in their respective tea. "Do you believe that it had something to do with Rasmussen? Harry..." she added sternly, when he shifted uncomfortably, peering into the depths of his teacup. "I worked it out – while I was laying in that hospital bed."

His gaze was careful. Even now Harry's spy instincts kicked in, preventing him from being led into an exposition. Instead of replying, he sipped his tea.

"MI6 _is_ holding Rasmussen." Ruth paused, letting that revelation wash over him. He might think he was an unreadable fascade but Ruth noticed the edges of his eyes twitch slightly – a sure sign that she was onto him. "Now – this is only what I've been able to put together from your _quite frankly_ shady dealings with Siviter – stop me if I'm wrong."

Yes, she was absolutely correct. Harry was fussing with the tassel on her cushion.

"MI6, for some reason – probably on request from the Chinese President but I can't be sure – set up the dinner and invited Rasmussen as its guest speaker for the specific purpose of helping him vanish. Maybe he got in too deep with unscrupulous buyers vying for his research. Whatever happened, MI6 staged a kidnapping, used us as cover and sank away into the shadows with Rasmussen. Direction from above is to 'drop the case' so that we don't investigate ourselves. Meanwhile, whatever trouble was sniffing around is now off following false leads while the real Rasmussen is here, safe in London. We were the ones that got too close. After all these years, Siviter forgets that MI5 keep packs of blood hounds in the basement."

"I believe the actual phrase he used was, 'catastrophic, meddling, pain in the arse department'."

"I'm right, aren't I..."

Harry sighed heavily, setting the cup down. "It was strongly implied."

Then the rest of the pieces tumbled into place and Ruth felt her stomach turn all over again. "That's why Siviter killed Simon – to preserve Rasmussen's location and stop _you_ from toppling the house of cards."

"We'll never prove it."

"Sometimes it's enough to know," she replied.

Ruth didn't ask Harry why he kept these secrets from her. Deep down she knew exactly why. Tied to that chair, a gun to her lover's head, Ruth had broken all her vows and crumbled under the most obvious lure in the book. Since that moment, when Harry had known for sure that she could be broken, he'd kept things to himself. There might not be a husband or a child to threaten any more but if a gun were held to Harry's head Ruth knew that she'd break. Lately, she'd started to suspect that he was falling into the same trap. Had he not traded her life for a state secret?

"I have a theory," she continued. "MI6 is searching for the hard copy of the files Simon downloaded because they contain information that they are not privy too. They must have doubts about something to go to those lengths."

"Or they're as paranoid as they've always been. Unless..."

"Siviter paid me a visit," Ruth admitted. She continued quickly before that sudden look of fury on Harry's face morphed into something worse. "I found him making himself comfortable in my living room after you pretended to destroy the hard copy."

"And you gave them to him."

Ruth frowned, setting her tea down more sharply than she meant to. "What? _No._ Why would you say that?"

"Because I-" Harry stopped himself, realising what he was about to admit to.

Ruth narrowed her eyes at him. "You _what_ exactly, Harry?"

"...looked for them. The files. The other night when you – we. They weren't under the floorboards."

"Setting aside the tiny detail that you searched my house while I was unconscious..."

Harry swallowed hard as she spoke. He could tell by her tone that she'd find various creative ways to punish him later for taking the liberty.

"You could have just asked me where I put them and saved yourself the trouble."

"Ruth – do you still have the file?"

"Bloody oath, I do."

"But – _how?_ "

If she wasn't feeling so ill Ruth might have torn a few strips off the insufferable man. "I had a feeling MI6 would pull something like this so, when you gave me he file, I tossed it straight into the dishwasher. That man searched my house for over an hour and he found nothing. God knows how long you were at it and you didn't find anything either. When was the last time you saw a man go near a dishwasher, hmm? Never."

There was definitely a flicker of pride welling up in his chest. "Ruth."

"What?"

"You're ever so slightly mad – you know that..."

"That had occurred to me when I came back to work for you."

Harry paused, eyeing her carefully. "Why did you?" he asked, their tone suddenly shifting. He'd meant to ask her that years ago. After what happened, a sensible person would have run a mile away from both him and the service. They'd cost her everything.

Ruth held his gaze while she replied. "You know why..."

And that's when he felt something press against his chest. A flicker of hope...


	14. WILL NORTH

**PISCO, PROVINCIA DE ICA**

 **PISCO, PERU**

Zoe hit the floor, ducking behind the folds of drapery which lined the pretty, coastal holiday room. Their cheery fabric mocked her fears, rippling back and forth with the ocean breeze that had worked its way over the few, short blocks picking up notes of cement dust and cigar smoke.

It was an instinctual reaction, one she performed before any conscious thought processed the impulse. Danger. In the air – on her nose – bubbling through her heart, sheering off a layer of frost as it beat faster. A long time ago, Zoe had entertained the same foolish dream of Will's – that time might calm her compulsion and dampen the creeping paranoia directed toward the world generally. If anything, those suspicions had grown more intense.

Lurking on the opposite side of the street was a silver Cadillac, riding low with a full company of shit heads inside. Thick moustaches, full suits despite the heat and a trail of illicit smoke clawing out from the slither of open window. Wrapping her hands around the arm of the chair, she edged toward the window, risking another glance.

Her fears were not without solid ground. Harry had been spot on with his accusations. Her insistence on a life with the Chilean Police Force cemented the danger. Despite herself, Zoe craved the constant rush of adrenaline. It's what attracted her to the service in the first place. What she feared was that part of her life bleeding into the other – her family. She had a husband and a daughter to think of now. These men, whomever they were, were treading dangerously.

" _You don't want to play with me,"_ she whispered at the window. _"Not after what I've seen."_

"What are you doing, Honey?" Will asked, wandering into the bedroom. He found his wife on the floor, half hidden by one of the curtains she'd tugged free of the bar above.

"Looking for an earring," she lied easily, closing what remained of the drapes as she stood. "Why – did you want to offer your services?" Zoe clocked her head to the side and flashed him a distracting smile. Meanwhile, her hands tied the curtains in place.

Will North knew his wife better than Zoe realised. He could tell both when she was lying and when she was _thinking_ about lying. This was the former. He'd given up fishing for the truth long ago. It was all part of package when marrying a spy. "I might. Though, it _would_ cost you."

"I warned you when we were married, I am a woman of humble means."

" _Poor_ was the word we used. _Fugitive_ was another." They both grinned. "I was thinking more along the lines of child services... Could you take her for a while? I might have a lie down if you don't mind. All that driving, it doesn't agree with me."

Zoe frowned, lifting the back of her hand to his forehead. He was sticky with pre-sweat. "You're a touch pale..." she noted. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Just the travelling," he replied. "Either that or I'm going down with something. Kids at the park... Plague carriers – all of them."

"Since we've become parents we've had every disease known to mankind – twice. Of course I'll look after her. You – stay here. We won't make too much noise."

"Might take a shower, actually..." Will added, before idly wandering in the direction of the bathroom. A few minutes later she heard the taps go, followed by steam snaking under the door into the bedroom.

Zoe headed downstairs where their little girl was bouncing around, face painted with rainbows and butterflies while she conversed with her latest imaginary friend. Zoe suspected this one might be a bird because she spoke primarily to her shoulder. Enough pirate movies for a while.

Despite the warmth of her family, Zoe's thoughts drifted back to the briefcase she'd handed to Harry. It had been days. Would she ever see or hear from him again? It was impossible to tell. If Harry could avoid digging up the past, he would. Zoe wasn't naïve, she understood that her freedom was a complication to a man like Harry – however good his heart might be. Even without him she still had an upset drug cartel to deal with – one that was going to be missing their leader shortly and a potentially corrupt police force. Hell, there was probably four other major groups after her that wasn't aware of.

"Where are we going, Mummy?"

Zoe hoisted her daughter into her arms. "Upstairs, Sweetie," she replied. "Mummy forgot something."

Before heading back upstairs, she checked all the locks and drew a few more curtains. Then, when her daughter was safely playing on the bed, Zoe went to change. She slipped a handgun into the waist of her jeans and a knife down her boot. She approached the window again. The car had moved. She decided that was worse.

A loud _crash_ made her jump. It came from the direction of the bathroom.

"Daddy...?"

Zoe nodded. "He probably dropped something. Stay here."

She knocked on the bathroom door. "Honey?" Knocked again. "You okay in there?" Then she opened to find Will on the floor in the shower, spread out with his limbs in all the wrong directions, awkwardly folded into the glass cubical like a spider in a jar. He was staring dumbly at the soap in his hand while the hot water rand down over his back leaving a scorched, red halo from the heat.

"Must have slipped..." Will muttered, seeming disoriented. His head started to drip blood from below the hairline. Its droplets were instantly washed away by the water. The glass barrier behind was cracked.

"You're all right..." Zow assured him, collecting her husband from the ground. She killed the taps, wrapped him in a towel and ushered him into the bedroom. If anything, he looked worse than before. "I think you've definitely picked up something from those kids earlier," she said, making sure that he sat on the bed. Do _not_ lie down. You could have a little concussion from that knock. I'll go find you something for your head."

She ratted around the cabinets in the bathroom for anything vaguely medicinal. Short of Macgyvering something in the sink out of miniature shampoo bottles, her options were reduced to bandaids, mouthwash and a sheet of painkillers. With that pitiful offering, Zoe re-entered the bedroom, reading the Spanish on the unfamiliar packaging best she could.

"Look," she started, holding the box in front of her face, "I'm at least eighty percent sure that these are pain killers but if you're not willing to risk your life on my Spanish then I suggest you-" Zoe stopped dead.

The men from the car had assembled themselves in her bedroom. One of them held her little girl in his arms. Two more had guns trained on her husband while a fourth pressed the barrel of his gun to her head.

Carefully, Zoe dropped the box and lifted her hands. "Easy..." she whispered, trying to keep everyone calm. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

Will was covered in a fresh sheen of sweat. His hands had begun to shiver,trembling against the surface of the bed where he sat. He nodded at her to say that everything was all right. Both of them maintained a facade of peace for the sake of their daughter who had not yet understood the danger.

"Angel Blanco!" The one with the gun on her head hissed. He repeated it, over and over, his aggression rising until Zoe nodded.

"Yes! I saw him. Yes..." Zoe felt the weapon press more firmly into her skin. "Few days ago. Near Shintuya. He's – _dead_." Her legs were kicked from underneath her. Zoe fell, landing on her knees.

"Mummy!"

"It's okay, Sweetie."

"How die? How die!" The man with the gun demanded. "You kill him?"

"He was dead before I got there," Zoe replied, turning to face the man. He was a small-time drug dealer, a miner name trailing Blanco's shadow.

"Liar!" This time, the man back-handed her with the weapon.

Zoe cowered forward with the pain, feeling it sear into her flesh. Blood trickled down her cheek as she sat back up. "Okay... You won't believe me if I tell you the truth." To her left, she heard Will double over in a sudden coughing fit. "Blanco was gravely ill. He'd – taken something. Some shit he'd bought for a lot of money. Sent him crazy. Crazier than you've ever seen. His flesh-" she carefully gestured to one of her arms, "-was black and falling off. I shot him several times but he wouldn't die. An old woman – she cut his head clean off. _Then_ he died. We burned the body. That's the truth of it."

Zoe had expected them to hit her again – call her a liar and beat her until she came up with believable half-truth but that's not what happened. The man with the gun took a step back, lowering his weapon. He rubbed his face in anguish, then held the gun against his head idly as he processed what she'd said.

"Blanco – sick..."

"Yes, sick. I had to kill him. He chased me through the forest like a ghost."

The man holding her daughter spoke this time. His English was perfect with a vaguely American accent. "What happened to the case with the drugs?"

She shook her head. "There was no case. I searched the hut in the forest but there was only an empty needle. Bring me a map, I'll show you where it is, you can go back and search-"

The muffled gunshot echoed in Zoe's ears. Will groaned, his hands grasping his upper thigh which immediately started to bleed over the bedding. _'Son of a bitch!'_ he muttered, while their daughter started to cry.

"You need to stop lying, or we'll find out how many holes your husband can stand before he begs us to end it. We saw you with the case. Who was the man in the cafe?"

"Honey – what's he talking about?"

Zoe tried not to look at her husband. "Let me hold my daughter. Please. You're scaring her. Come on. Please..." The man only obliged so he didn't have to deal with the screaming girl. Once cradled safely in her arms, Zoe replied. "I found the case. There was a single container inside but it was empty. Blanco injected the whole lot before he went mad. Whatever the hell it was he'd bought on the black market, it was far worse than any of us have seen. I handed the case over to a private drug production company. I figured, maybe they could find a trace of whatever it was so that when it hits the streets we won't be fighting blind. That is the truth."

"Does it wear off?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The effects of the drug," the man, now empty handed, asked. He was pacing across in front of the curtains, looking nervous. "How long does it take to come out of someone's system?"

"I – I think you've misunderstood. From what I saw of Blanco – it _killed_ him, left him as some walking corpse. It might depend on how much you take but I don't think it wears off like a hit of coke. Argh!" She was grabbed by the back of her shirt and dragged over in front of her husband.

"That better be a lie..." The man growled against her ear. "Because if what you say is true and there is no cure – your husband will join Blanco in the next world."

* * *

Zoe lost track of the hours. They were loaded into the back of a van, tied together and blind folded. Highway turned to gravel and the flat gave way to mountains. That's all she knew. They were separated on arrival. Zoe was walked down a long corridor that smelled of hash and dust. Material brushed against her face until she was brought to a stop. Her blind fold was ripped off and she stood facing a cage.

It was six foot high and nearly as much wide – large enough to hold the man sitting against the bars. He had his knees pulled to his chest and torn clothes. The man, one of the heads of a rival drug cartel, rocked back and forth, muttering incoherently. His eyes were bloodshot and dark red rashes were on both arms.

"Jesus..." Zoe whispered, taking half a step forward to get a better look.

"Blanco wasn't the only one to buy a batch." The English speaking man from before continued. "On the street, they call it, 'Glass'." He shoved a phone in her hand. It was wrapped in duct tape and wire. "The man you gave the briefcase to – call him."

"No."

"Let's not play games. Call the man or your daughter will be waiting for your husband on the other side."

* * *

 **RUTH'S HOUSE, LONDON**

The blinds of Ruth's lounge room were all drawn and the windows locked – Harry had checked twice. He wasn't in the mood for any overtly curious MI6 minions sticking their noses in. Actually, the only thing he was in the mood for was more tea but they were out of that particular commodity and were left with a disastrous sludge of instant coffee slushing about in the bottom of his mug.

Over the course of the morning, Ruth and Harry had migrated to the floor and were now surrounded by hundreds of loose sheets of paper from the stolen file. Some were grouped into piles, others lay off to the side as half-thoughts or suspicions momentarily given life only to be buried under another pile of abandoned conjecture.

"This is hopeless..." Harry muttered turning another piece of paper over. They'd been at it for hours and found sod all to explain why MI6 had made several high-risk plays for the information in front of them. "If this is so important to them, one wonders why they don't have a crack at downloading the original file themselves instead of fussing about with murder and theft. Completely irrational, even for our older siblings."

Ruth's eyes dragged their way up from the papers in her hands. Sometimes Harry faltered in the face of technology. He was _such_ a stereotypical Cold War spy when he wanted to be.

"Because," she replied slowly, making sure her words were weighted with sufficient ire, "they _can't._ I'm not sure you've quite grasped the enormity of what Malcolm and Simon achieved. Illegal thought it may have been, it was also brilliant. If MI6 hadn't killed him, another branch of our government would have done the honours. The only reason Malcolm remains at large is because he is one of the greatest, most underrated Spooks who ever lived. He might never have been particularly physical but he could break into a Swiss bank in under four minutes while knocking off half of Sony's online collection."

"As usual Ruth, you do have a point. Malcolm is and always was a slippery bugger which is the chief reason I kept him locked on the Grid. On that note, have you heard any news?"

"None," Ruth replied. "The man is a ghost. When he's ready to talk to us, I'm sure he'll find a discreet way. We'll have to exercise a little patience."

Harry sighed at the files surrounding them. It was late in the morning. The sun was well under way in its daily ark and people had begun milling past the front windows on their way to work. He could see their shadows and hear the padding of paws as the dog walkers stormed through.

"It's all just – more of the same..." he protested, letting his current file fall to the floor in resignation. It didn't quite make it – catching a corner of another which kicked it up into a passing air current. The result of its good fortune led to it sashaying across the floor into Ruth's hand.

"You're joking..." She whispered, narrowing her eyes at the document. Without her glasses she had to bring it comically to her nose. No, she had not been mistaken. "Rasmussen has a child."

"Is that meant to be particularly interesting?" Harry yawned. "What are you doing?" He added, when she leaned forward and started rustling through all their papers. "Ruth... Don't go silent on me. You're making a dreadful mess of that pile of – no – oh my word..."

Ruth ignored his pleas for sanity and instead yanked pages from their binders and laid all the little pieces of evidence she had gathered side by side, nodding as she went.

"Are you going to share the joke?" Harry asked, when Ruth covered her mouth with her hand and started tentatively laughing at the otherwise innocuous page. It was a photo of Rasmussen.

"Your friend, the Chinese President, is a two-timing, back-stabbing, _bad influence_ on you, Harry. Look..."

"I did. Rasmussen. What's your point?"

"Read the name tag..." She advised, tapping on the silver pin clipped onto his lab coat.

"Son of a-"

" _That's_ what MI6 is after."

"What are you going to do?"

Harry used the couch to climb back to his feet. Several vertebra in his spine cracked in protest reminding him that he really _should_ pick up that prescription even if it meant admitting his inclining years. "It's nearly eight. I thought I might look in on the Grid before I'm replaced by a left-leaning stick insect with twelve sets of letters after their name."

"Harry..." Ruth stood as well, folding her arms sternly. "What are you doing..."

He never got around to answering her, so Ruth was left collecting the remnants of their top secret file. She'd have to find it another hiding place. That wouldn't be too difficult. There were many places in a house which men were unaware of.

* * *

Siviter was happy. The sun had found a crack in the otherwise infinite cloud banks. The drizzle had momentarily ceased. There was a steaming double-shot hazelnut latte in front of him and his phone was face down on the chequered tablecloth. His world was complete – dare he say, _perfect._

His reverie dissipated under the shadow of his uninvited guest.

"Skim-cap," Harry nodded at the waiter, before dragged out the chair opposite Siviter with a god-awful screech. A few people turned around, casting disapproving looks. Siviter's company of two agents kept their noses in their respective coffee cups.

"Pearce... I'd like to say, 'what a pleasure' but I've turned over a new leaf."

"And what particular leaf is that?" Harry asked, settling himself. It was quite a pleasant spot, overlooking a glimpse of London's ever-greying skyline. "An aversion to hospitality?"

Siviter found himself amused. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Oh go ahead, anything to hasten your departure from the Earth." He helped himself to a square of toast left over.

"How's Ms Evershed?"

Harry didn't look up as he replied. "Doing better. Your car's parked around the corner." He fished the keys out of his pocket and placed them on the table.

"Why do I get the feeling that you here for more than my car, Harry?"

"You never know, I might surprise you."

"Give it a go."

"Whilst driving your vehicle the long way over here, it occurred to me that we – that is – the both of us, work for Her Majesty's Government."

"That is, indeed, true."

"And that, due to this surprising fact, perhaps we can be of service _to each other._ " His coffee came, steaming beside him. Harry left Siviter waiting while he blew over the foam softly and took a sip. "Considering this, I thought we could adjourn to your house – you've an acquaintance there I'd like to meet."

Jools Siviter was quiet, attending his own coffee. He used the overwhelming odour of overpriced roasted seed to hide from the world and procrastinate. "I'm not sure I understand you." Harry lofted that irritating eyebrow of his in response. The trouble with Harry was that he was as good at sniffing out lies as he was at weaving them. "Even if I did, it would take a lot more than your company over breakfast to entice me. I presume you have something more substantial to offer?"

"That item that you weren't looking for in Ruth's house..." Then Harry tapped his head, indicating its answer was within. "On my honour – take me back to your abode and I'll speak the truth."

* * *

Siviter must have been desperate because after finishing his hijacked breakfast, he drove Harry across town.

" _Nay then, farewell! I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness and, from that full meridian of my glory, I haste now to my setting. I shall fall... Like a bright exhalation in the evening and no man see me more."_

"I thought you were illiterate, Harry."

"Mostly," Harry replied, tilting his head as Wolsey Tower loomed out of the mist surrounded by tightly clipped lawns and ancient trees with a spread of velvet leaves that turned their backs to the wind. "But I know solid old English craftsmanship when I see it."

They were in Esher, meandering up the gravel drive of a popular tourist destination. "It was good enough for more than one king of England. Don't pretend you didn't hear the whispers."

"It was considered odd to those who bothered watching the remarkable quantity of government plated cars coming in and out of these gates."

"That's the trouble with spies these days, they refuse to give up their luxury for anonymity."

"Watched too many Bond films."

"Ain't that the truth," Siviter snorted, as they rounded the circular drive and detoured into the car park.

As they stepped out of the car, Siviter lit up one of his comedy cigars – almost certainly the same one he'd been smoking for years. They walked together around to the side of the building where an innocuous swipe panel on the wall was used to unlock a medieval door.

"This is all very theatrical, Jools," Harry started, as they entered. It was, if possible, even more poky inside than he had imagined. They were in a priest's hole. Siviter knelt on the floor in front of Harry and pulled on a giant, iron ring in the centre of a trap door. It opened easy, giving way to a steep stairwell and glow of artificial light. "I'll give you credit for execution though. Why ever did you decide to keep him in this place?"

"It was a voluntary handover," Siviter replied, as they both descended the stairs. The hatch closed on its own behind them. "As convenient as it might sound, we cannot simply put him in a holding cell and interrogate him. He is our _guest_."

It was the first time Siviter confirmed verbally that MI6 were, indeed holding Rasmussen. The ruins beneath Wolsey Tower had been restored and transformed into top secret accommodation for persons of interest. The security was heavy – a highly technical mix of agents and computers. Harry nodded at Night Owl as he wandered down the corridor in the opposite direction. Night Owl did a double take, damn near running into a wall.

"Good to see you making friends."

"I always bond with my stalkers," Harry insisted, as they took countless corners along the ancient brick passages. Their ceilings were so low that Harry found himself stooping. Poor Siviter, who was significantly taller, was almost bent double. "Is this is then?"

They were standing in front of another set of old looking doors that had been covered with a special perspex layer to both protect them and preserve their ornate exteriors.

"You can go in, it's unlocked," one of the guards outside said.

Inside they found a windowless apartment that had more in common than a cave than a hotel. There was an office area, small kitchen, pair of couches and a bed. Standing in the centre of the room, staring at the sparse bookshelf lining one wall, was Rasmussen.

* * *

 **PISCO, PROVINCIA DE ICA**

 **PISCO, PERU**

"What's going to happen to him?" Zoe asked, sitting on the floor in front of her husband. Will North had been placed in one of the plastic enclosures. He leaned against the wall, shivering as the drug started to take hold of his system. Sweat formed across his forehead, dripped down his hair onto the floor surrounding him in a salty rain. The drug lords had their own doctors. They milled about, peering in from time to time, making notes – shaking their heads.

"You tell me..." The man from the hotel said. "Try him again."

Zoe looked at the phone thrust in her direction. "I told you, his number was engaged."

"Then you're going to try again and again and again until this friend of yours picks up."

She didn't take the phone yet, looking instead to Will. "Where's my daughter?"

"Take the phone."

Muffled screaming started from the plastic cell beside them. The rival drug lord couldn't sit any more – instead he curled up into a ball and began howling at the light.

"Who is he – to you? Why've you got him in here?"

"Don't worry about him – worry about your husband and your daughter."

Reluctantly, Zoe took the phone and tried the number again. As she tapped the numbers in, she placed her free hand on the plastic.


End file.
